


newfragile yellows

by heartslogos



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 385
Words: 461,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9644048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartslogos/pseuds/heartslogos
Summary: "i should rather than anything / have(almost when hugeness will shut / quietly)almost, / your kiss" - i have found what you are like, e.e. cummingsAU's ft. the Iron Bull and Lavellan





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> you've seen me do about 500 Dragon Age setting versions of Lavellan and the Iron Bull but get this my dudes - _alternate universes ft different versions of lavellan and the iron bull_ AAAAAY GET IT
> 
> (i was kidding when i said 500 but hot dang am i getting there lmao)

“Hey, I’m here to pick up a Snubbull named Pookie and a Granbull named Grievous.”

At the sound of their names, Flyssa turns and sees the two Pokemon running down the daycare’s brightly lit hallways. The Snubbull makes  a running jump and the man catches it in one arm. The Granbull crashes into the man’s waist and almost takes him down entirely.

“Right on time,” Flyssa says, “They’re very well behaved Pokemon.”

She hands over the release papers for the Granbull.

“Can I sign Pookie out first?” The man asks, pulling out his license. “Greivous isn’t mine. I’m picking her up for her owner. I have the forms.”

Flyssa blinks. She wasn’t here when the two were dropped off so -

“I’m sorry, my mistake.”

The Iron Bull, she wonders how he got _that_ printed onto his I.D. without anyone asking questions, shrugs his shoulders. “Nah, happens all the time.” He leans onto the front counter as Flyssa searches through the daycare files for the proper forms to add him to Greivous’ guardian list.

Greivous tugs at the man’s arm and makes a questioning whine.

“Sorry,” He says, rubbing Greivous’ head, “Boss got caught up. Acorn and Sweet Cheeks got into another fight.”

Greivous snorts. Pookie kicks her feet and grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. The ranch is getting crazy. I keep telling the boss to transfer some out to the other places or let them duke it out. You know how she is.”

Flyssa begins to copy down the Iron Bull’s information onto Grevious’ file and pauses when she sees the Granbull’s owners real name.

“Yeah,” Flyssa looks up and the three are giving her an amused look. “Don’t worry, _that_ happens all the time, too.”

“By Acorn and Sweet Cheeks,” Flyssa says slowly, “You wouldn’t happen to mean a certain Tyranitar and Swampert that a certain woman has been using to fight team Rocket forces in the area, would you?”

“I keep telling her that she’s going over board,” The Iron Bull shrugs, “It’s just Team Rocket. Should’ve just left it to Amare.”

Flyssa puts the file down and points at him, “You tell Lavellan that if she brings that Salamence back here again I’m going be having _words_ with her. That Salamence had poor little Magby’s and Shieldons jumping out of trees convinced that they could learn to fly, too.”

-

“Sorry, Boss,” The Iron Bull says, “That looks like a miss.”

Lavellan groans, stretching out over the table and whining. Her legs stretch out under the table and the Iron Bull feels her toes pushing against his knees.

“ _No_ ,” She groans as Cullen pats her back. “If this is a miss I’m going to _lose_ , I can’t have a miss, Bull. Please? I can’t die in this campaign. I bet Dorian I could make it the entire way through as a warrior.”

“Easiest money I’ve ever made,” Dorian says to Sera who snorts and gives him a fist bump.

“I’ll cover you,” Cullen says, “I have that magic item we won from a few campaigns back  - “

“Used it,” Dorian says.

“No, I didn’t,” Cullen flips to a section of his notebook and frowns, “I still have it. I would have marked it if I didn’t have it. Bull, I have it still, right?”

“Used it,” Bull confirms, checking something in his notebook as Lavellan climbs over the table to try and pester Bull into letting her character slide past death’s embrace.

“When _I’m_ DM I let you get away with things,” She whines.

“I knew it,” Sera says turning to Dorian, “I knew she was going easy on him. You owe me coffee for the next three months.”

Dorian groans and glares at Lavellan, “I thought you were better than favoritism.”

“Easiest bet I’ve ever won,” Sera sniggers.

“What do you mean I’ve _used it_?” Cullen exclaims. “I _didn’t use it_.”

“Never said it was _you_ who used it,” Bull says, hand pushing Lavellan’s face away from his notes and holding her at half an arm’s reach - well. For him. For her it’s almost an entire arm. Lavellan whines. “Dorian used it a few sessions ago when you were out.”

“How did he use it? _Why did you let him use it_?”

“It was in the shared inventory,” Dorian says. Cullen looks baffled.

“We don’t _have_ a shared inventory. That isn’t a thing.”

“Yes we do,” Lavellan says, just leaning against Bull’s hand, voice muffled by his palm. “It’s where I’ve been putting all the pants Sera keeps stealing off of the people we con.”

-

“You and the Iron Bull are dating?” Cullen blinks, “I thought you were dating Solas.”

“Gross,” Sera and Dorian exchange faces. Cassandra wrinkles her nose. Lavellan looks aghast. Bull snorts.

“He’s my dad,” Lavellan pulls out her phone and turns it towards him. “Not my _real father_ but my father by human law.”

“ _He’s your dad_?” Dorian exclaims.

“You have a picture of your adoption papers on your phone?” Sera asks.

“I like to show it to him whenever he starts to make that face that means he disapproves of something I do,” Lavellan says, smiling, “Because I like to remind him that he absconded with an orphaned elf in the middle of a war zone and forged fake papers to take her into a foreign country and didn’t own up on it until years later because we almost got caught at a border crossing in the middle of yet another war zone. It shuts him up _immediately_.”

“I thought you were dating Cullen,” Sera says and Lavellan doesn’t look scandalized - not like Cullen does - but more offended.

“I would _never_ date Cullen,” She exclaims. Dorian snorts so hard that he starts coughing. “He doesn’t let me bring animals that aren’t dogs inside his apartment. _Rude!_ ”

“Wild animals belong in the _wild_ ,” Cullen wheezes, face red.

“I thought you were dating Cole,” Dorian admits. “You two have always been so incredibly close. I didn’t want to pry.”

“He’s my brother,” Lavellan says, quickly swiping through her phone.

“Do you just take pictures of all your legal documents? Isn’t that like - _dangerous_?” Sera asks as she shows them a younger Cole standing between her and Solas holding a small decorated chalkboard that says _After 745 Days in the Foster System I’ve found my Forever Family!_

“I thought you were dating Dorian,” Cassandra says.

Everyone turns to give her a baffled look.

“Dorian is _gay_ ,” Sera says.

Cassandra waves a hand, “ _They’re together all the time_. They go home drunk together every time we go out. What was I supposed to think?”

“And I thought I slept around,” Bull muses.

“Quiet you,” Dorian slaps Bull’s arm. “How the hell did we miss this? You can’t keep a secret about your relationships to save your damned life.”

“Former spy,” Bull says, “I can keep secrets. This one wasn’t a secret. We have the same mailing address.”

“Also we aren’t dating,” Lavellan says, “We’re in a domestic partnership.”

She holds up her phone and shows them a picture of the two of them at City Hall.

“See? We’ve got papers and everything. Josephine was our witness. She cried for two hours _before_ the whole thing. We had hot coco afterwards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested:
> 
> This Lavellan, in that specific universe, has a team of:  
> Salamance (Amare)  
> Tyranitar (Acorn)  
> Swampert (Sweet Cheeks)  
> Granbull (Grievous)  
> Gyrados (Boo)  
> Haunter (Giggles)
> 
> Bulls team:  
> Snubull (pookie)  
> Ursurang  
> Blaziken  
> Whismur  
> Wigglytuff  
> Furfrou


	2. Chapter 2

“I think this is it,” Krem says, “The seeker charm Dalish and Dorian made for us stops working here.”

“Is this where we get on our knees and pray to trees?” Rocky asks.

Bull looks around the area. Nothing but pale and sickened vegetation as far as he can see.

“Probably,” He says. He wonders how dumb he looks when he raises his voice and addresses the forest, “I’m the Iron Bull, leader of the Iron Bull’s Chargers. We are with the Inquisition. This forest is a supply for Inquisition resources. We were sent here to figure out what is wrong. We’re on your side.”

Bull pauses and waits for something, anything. Usually Dalish handles this part - trees are happier to talk to trees than flesh. And if not Dalish then another mage - Pavus, de Fer, Trevelyan, Adaar.

“What is it that you seek?” He turns and sees a woman sliding out of the pale trees, dark hair floating around her before sinking over her shoulders and chest, framing her pale face. Her dark eyes stare at him, giving away nothing.

“Why does this forest die?” Bull asks, “What can we give so that you’ll help it grow again?”

The spirit shakes her head, “Nothing. I cannot help you.”

“Why not?” Krem asks.

“This is not my forest,” The woman answers, “My forest is far from here, a different sort. I can taste it on you, the Iron Bull’s chargers. I can taste my forest on you.”

“Are you the one who raised the barrier?” Bull asks. She nods.

“There is a sister of bark among you who sought to enter, and a man of fire. Unwise.” She raises a hand and points deeper into the forest. “Those jetsam stranglers pulled me out of my beds, cut me from my brothers and sisters and brought me here to catch more - they were not content with me alone. They caught and killed the brothers and sisters of this forest. And the ones they caught begged me for release from their fate. There was no brother or sister to give it to me, but I could give it to them. So I did. Better to die than suffer under the poachers.”

She lowers her hand.

“I cannot save this forest. I can point you to those who brought ruin upon it, but it will not grow again.”

“Salt,” Stitches says softly. Bull turns to look at him. “There’s salt in the soil.”

Bull examines the spirit closer. The paleness of her skin and the flow of her hair - he recognizes it now.

“Ocean spirit,” He says.

She nods.

“I will show you to those who pulled me from my beds,” She said, “I have heard of you, I know you. I know you from when you were tossed by my brothers and sisters in their play, when you cut down creatures of flesh and let their blood run into our hair. I know your cause. My tide is in your favor, the Iron Bull. Do not waste it.”

-

“Stop being a damn lush, Pavus,” Bull says, lightly shoving the man over for space at the bar. “Do you know how damn expensive it is to provide for these drunkards when you’re buying up all the good stock like you’re using it to bathe in?”

“You call this _good stock_?” Pavus snorts, “This is barely passable.”

“Then give it here and go back to the gold flaked piss you call wine,” Bull snorts.

“No fighting at the bar,” Flyssa warns them, “You know the rules. Play nice with the rich lush, Bull.”

“I wouldn’t be drinking this if my regular supply were in,” Dorian says.

“I’m alive,” The hidden door opens and everyone in the bar lets out a loud cheer when Lavellan stumbles through. “I’m somehow alive. Dorian, you can’t drink that. I didn’t get that for you. I get that stock of Bull only.”

Lavellan and Sera deposit their loads onto the counter. Flyssa goes to check the contents.

“I thought you _died_ ,” Dorian says, “And that I would never see anything that tastes good again.”

“Cullen gave me first aide and was helping me into my truck,” Lavellan says, squeezing in between them, “But then the rest of the police came and he had to pretend to be fighting with me and we had to make it look _real_ so  he punched me in the gun wound.”

Bull and Dorian wince in sympathy.

“He’s sorry, he sent me flowers,” She says.

“Good man,” Sera says, “A toast to Rutherford and the common sense that alcohol doesn’t cause crime, injustices in the system do.”

“Cheers,” The room raises their pints.

“You alright Boss?” Bull asks, “You good to be doing runs? Is Pavus running you too hard? You know you could always just let him go sober.”

“Rude,” Dorian sniffs, “I don’t drink it all. Most of this goes to my clients.”

“Vivienne and Josephine doesn’t deserve to go dry,” Lavellan says, leaning against Bull’s side. “They’re too beautiful for that. My payment, Dorian?”

“Three trucks of fertilizer and seed? On its way with an estimated delivery of some time this Tuesday or Wednesday. I don’t know why you need that much fertilizer or seed, and I won’t ask, but bless your heart for exchanging alcohol for farm supplies.”

-

“You,” The Iron Bull says, attention slowly focusing and pulling away from everything else to focus on the woman who’s come to a stop about six paces away from him, “Are not Dalish.

“No,” She replies, “Who here would know better? Those that do want that secret kept. A woman mage is bad enough.”

“One from the Qun is even worse,” He agrees.

“But I am not,” She tilts her head. “I am Tal-Vashoth.”

His eyes trace the tattoos that mimic vitaar and he raises an eyebrow.

She shrugs her shoulders.

“The Qun and I do not agree,” She says. “I was known as Ash. I sought answers that they would not give. I sought many things they would not give.”

“And now, you are Lavellan.”

She tilts her head, “I was Lavellan before they forced me to Ash. Now I am Lavellan again. I am always Lavellan. Even when there is no one to remember it. Does the fact that I was once of the Qun make you uneasy, the Iron Bull?”

“Yes,” He admits. It’s been a long time since he’s come close to someone of the Qun.

“Even though I am a deserter? Would you report me to your leaders?”

“They will find out whether I tell them or not,” He says.

“Given a choice, you would not say,” Her mouth laughs without moving, “And so we are alike, in this. Welcome to the Inquisition, the Iron Bull. Let us hope it treats us both kindly.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, Bull, there’s a salad outside looking for you,” Bull glances down.

“Sera,” He says as the Asura points at the direction of the main gates, “You can’t call Sylvari salads. Those are hurtful words. We’ve been through this.”

Sera snorts, rolling her eyes, “They don’t even know it’s an insult. Besides, you call Dalish a cabbage head all the time.”

“At her specific request,” Bull says.

“Whatever,” Sera shrugs, trudging off back towards where she left Dorian watching one of their experiments, “Anyway, the salad at the gate looks a few leaves short of a full mouth. Good luck with that, fur ball.”

“Someone’s going to punt you straight into a destroyer nest one day,” Bull says, walking past her.

“You’d catch me,” Sera points out.

“Or I’d be the one kicking you,” He calls back.

There is, indeed, a Sylvari woman standing by Fort Trinity’s gates, making small talk with a pair of Sylvari guards.

“This is Lavellan,” One of the guards says, the three of them turning to face him as he approaches. “Our sister is freshly awoken from her dream and has been sent here by Mother.”

“Mother sent me,” Lavellan nods in agreement with what the guard says. “But first she sent me to the Master of your Order.” She holds out a letter that’s sealed by the Whisper’s seal. “And they told me this is where I can find you.”

“You were looking for me in specific?” Bull asks, cutting the seal on the letter with his claw and quickly opening it to skim the contents. It seems legitimate. It’s in proper code and everything.

“You were in her dream,” The other guard says.

“Mother knew of you through Cole,” Lavellan says, “And told me I could find you here.”

“Alright,” Bull internally groans. The letter is basically the Master laughing at him because he always gets shit luck and attracts the weird ones. But her cause for being here is legitimate. She isn’t lying - so probably not Nightmare court or anything. “What were you looking for me for?”

Lavellan turns towards the other two Sylvari who shrug at her. Lavellan looks back at him.

“Because you were in my dream,” She says.

“And?”

She blinks, “And?”

“And was there anything you needed me to do? Anything you needed to do with me? Something?”

The two Sylvari continue to shake their heads at her.

“No,” She says slowly, “You were in my dream is all. I just knew I had to find you when I woke. So now I have and that’s that. Is there supposed to be something else? That wasn’t in the dream.”

-

“I saw the Iron Bull in the evidence lock up room building a model barn,” Sutherland says, “Is there a reason for that?”

“Oh,” Aclassi looks up from the file he was checking over for Trevelyan, “It’s his wife’s birthday this weekend and he’s building her a toy barn.”

“ _He’s married_?” Sutherland gapes. The man is always going out drinking and - well. _Sleeping around_.

Sutherland is suddenly horrified and worried about what sort of situation he’s stumbled on and why no one else seems to care about it.

“Yeah, about five years now,” Aclassi nods, leaning back in his chair. “It was more of a benefits thing, really. She wanted to adopt her foster brother so he didn’t get back in the system so they got married so they’d look more stable. And also she needed insurance pretty bad - she got into an accident and they had to amputate - and Orlais didn’t accept her paperwork at the time. She’s a Marcher.”

“Isn’t that some kind of fraud?” Sutherland asks.

“Oh, no. Don’t get me wrong. The two are damn mad for each other,” Aclassi snorts, “It’s just that neither of them believe in marriage. They’d have happily been living together in domestic goodness for the rest of their lives without ever putting anything down on record. Hey, Chief. How’s the barn going?”

“It has fucking _wheels_ , Aclassi,” Sutherland squeaks. For someone so _large_ he moves so _quietly_. Bull drops onto his chair, glaring at Aclassi’s head. “You bought the damn thing to mess with me, didn’t you? I just wanted a barn. It has _wheels_. And a fucking _handle_. What the hell, Aclassi?”

“Should’n’t have given me such creative license, Chief.”

Bull groans and rubs a hand over his face, “The Boss comes home from her trip tonight, this thing needs to be done and in my car by then because I sure as hell can’t work on the thing at home.”

“You call your wife _the Boss_?” Sutherland asks.

“She’s the Police Commissioner,” Bull snorts, “What else would I call her?”

-

“Cheif, she’s waiting for you in your office,” Aclassi says pointing his thumb at the frosted glass door. “I tried to get her to wait outside, but you know how she is.”

Bull nods, “Thanks for the warning, Krem. You know what she wants?”

“Said she’d only discuss it with you,” Krem says. “Told her we’ve got our cases booked. But she insisted.”

“Sounds like her,” Bull snorts, “Let’s see what she wants.”

When he opens the door to his office, he sees Lavellan sitting at his desk with a look that means trouble.

Bull met Lavellan about four or five years ago when she was framed for the murder of the Divine. Her lawyers hired the Charger’s Detective Agency to help clear her name. A legal mess and half an all out war later, Lavellan’s name was cleared of that murder and she became a P.I. of her own and launched a personal war on crime and injustice this side of death.

“I need your help,” Lavellan says. Bull closes the door.

“Out of the chair,” He says and Lavellan pouts as she stands up and perches on the desk. “Cut it out with the look.”

Bull’s a damn sucker for that look and she knows it. The pouty lips and sad cow eyes and the legs that can go on forever. Lavellan’s got the look that means trouble down and she knows just how to use it. That look’s taken ten years off his life, and that’s just this past four months.

“You’re wearing lipstick. Who’s is it?”

“Who says it isn’t mine?” Lavellan asks.

“Last I checked you didn’t own any,” Bull replies, tossing his jacket over the back of his chair and taking a seat.

“And when did you check?”

“This morning,” He answers dryly as Lavellan slides onto his lap, curling up close, “When I was looking for my aftershave because you keep throwing our shit together to annoy me. Who’s is it?”

“I don’t do it to annoy you, I do it because I don’t like things on the bathroom countertop. It’s Skinner’s.”

“Skinner owns lipstick?” And then, “Skinner wears make up?”

And then -

“Tell me that my top muscle isn’t using human blood to make make up.”

Lavellan gives him an annoyed look.

He squeezes her hip.

“What is it? I’ve got a four o’clock coming in that needs an update on their case.”

“I’ve found that back-stabbing asshole who tried to cut off my arm,” Lavellan says, “And I think that nationalistic asshole is going to try it again.”

Bull stares.

“Help me catch him and beat him to an inch of his life?” Lavellan flutters her eyelashes just like de Fer and Leliana taught her. “ _Please_?”

Bull lets out a long groan and leans back in the chair. Lavellan tugs at his suspenders.

“Please?”

“Krem,” Bull calls out, “Push all our cases to the auxiliary team. Clear the schedules. We’re taking Lavellan’s case.”

“But _Chief_ , we just bought a new air conditioning unit,” Krem yells back because Lavellan’s cases may be interesting but they also pay in actual lint and cracker crumbs.

“Suck on some ice,” Bull yells back, “We’ve got a genocidal asshole to catch.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Cullen!”

Cullen startles awake, almost falling out of his chair and onto the floor. He groans when he looks straight out his window and into the afternoon light.

“Cullen are you decent?” Sera pounds on his door, then pauses and bursts out into laughter, “What am I saying? Of course you’re decent, you turn red if you accidentally flash ankle. I’m coming in.”

“Untrue,” Cullen hastily wipes at dried and sticky drool on his cheek, “What is it, Sera?”

Sera throws his door open and he winces when it hits the wall. Luckily there’s a build up of clothes hanging on the back so it cushions the blow.

“You’ve been a grad student for a million years.” Almost ten, but it feels like a million. “You’ve seen a lot of bad decisions made by other students.” Incredibly and sadly true. “Talk Lavellan out of wanting to fuck her psychology professor.”

Cullen chokes on whatever spit was left in his mouth and starts coughing.

“That’s a lie, Sera,” Lavellan calls from down the hall, voice coming closer, “And a misrepresentation of my situation.”

Lavellan appears in the doorway and holds up two fingers.

“One, he isn’t _my_ professor. He’s the head advisor for Psychology and I don’t take any psychology classes, I take _philosophy_ classes.”

“Yeah, well, you wanted to fuck that professor, too.”

“Again, an incredibly gross - in all meanings of the word - misinterpretation of facts. I wanted to crawl into his brain and pull it apart. That’s how all relationships between parents and children work.”

Cullen and Sera stare at her.

She pauses, “I may have forgotten to mention that he’s my adoptive father. Anyway. Enough about that, we’re talking about the present. One, he isn’t my professor. And two, I don’t want to sleep with him, _I want to be his friend_.”

Sera turns to Cullen and points, “Look at what I have to work with? Fix this.”

“How do you - you can’t just _become_ a professor’s friend as a student,” Cullen says, “You aren’t even in his department.”

“False because my old RA used to be one of his interns when he was running a private business and now I have an in,” Lavellan says, “I could definitely become his friend.”

“You keep up with your old RA?” Sera asks.

“Of course I do, I keep up with _all_ of my old RA’s and professors and T.A.’s and group partners. That’s just good manners and proper networking.”

Cullen suddenly feels very embarrassed. He can barely remember the names of the other students in his classes. To be fair, they probably don’t remember him, either. Mostly they’re all too wired for learning each other’s names and faces in between trying to figure out if they’re seeing text blurry because their eyes are gone or their minds are.

“Don’t do it,” Cullen says.

“I’m going to do it,” Lavellan puts her hands on her hips. “I mean what I said and I said what I mean. Now if you excuse me, I’m going to call my father to inform him of this new life choice and that he can’t interfere in anyway. Not like last time.”

“ _Last time_?” Sera and Cullen exclaim as Lavellan walks back to her room, the sound of her voice on the phone half-way carrying - “ _Solas, no - Solas, it’s me. Your child. No, the female one. What do you mean be specific? How many of us did you abscond with? Are you hoarding again? Dogs aren’t daughters, Solas. How much caffeine did they make you take today? Disgusting.”_

_-_

“Hello,” the bell above the door tinkles and Minaeve is momentarily blinded by the light of the sun reflecting off the many glass surfaces inside of the store. She walks past several glass terrariums and pots, “Hello?”

“Hi, I’ll be right with you,” A woman’s voice calls out. She appears out of the book stacks a few moments later, flashing Minaeve a smile as she moves to stand behind the counter. “Welcome to the Ink-quisition. Anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, I’m Minaeve, I have a two o’clock appointment,” Minaeve moves to the counter and sets down her bag on it, “I’ve brought the manuscripts. Is here good?”

The woman blinks at her, and then nods her head, mouth forming a small _oh_ , “Ah. You’re here for books.” She turns and yells, “Bull! One of yours!”

“Be right there,” A man’s deep voice calls back from deeper into the store.

The woman turns back to her and smiles, holding out her hand, “I’m Lavellan. I run the downstairs part.”

“The downstairs part?” Minaeve shakes her hand, confused.

“You probably heard of us through the book selling thing,” Lavellan says, smile curling around the edge of her voice, “This floor sells books. The cellar is a tattoo parlor. I’m the tattoo artist, and Bull here is the book buyer and seller.”

“Hey, Minaeve, right?” Minaeve turns and looks up. And up. _And up_.

The man grins down at her and offers his hand. It’s missing two fingers and tattooed from wrist to shoulder.

“I’m Bull,” He says, “You brought the originals?”

He and Lavellan deftly trade places as Minaeve pulls the manuscripts out, staring at them both. It’s wrong to assume, she knows, but still. The discrepancy is eerie.

“They’re here,” She says, handing them over to him. He hums, pulling over a bar stool and sitting on it as he lightly and carefully begins to examine the book.

“Thought you had a booking,” Bull says as Lavellan peers over his shoulder to look.

“Showed up in the middle of withdrawal,” She says, “Sent him away and texted Cullen. He’ll handle making a new appointment for him.” She clicks her tongue, “Poor man. Should’ve called ahead. Almost threw up after just getting down the stairs.”

Lavellan turns towards Minaeve, “I mostly do cover ups. Gang symbols, scars, burns, track marks, things like that. I mean I do the other stuff too, but most of my business is from that. A lot of former Templars come through here but withdrawal is a long process and sometimes it just hits them bad in the chair.”

“Good guys though,” Bull hums, “Almost always buy a book on the way through. Minaeve, where did you get this copy again? I know you said in your email but I’m having trouble believing that Pentaghast would really part with this thing.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you sure you aren’t coming?” Bull asks, feeling a little desperate and a lot resigned as he slowly buttons up his shirt.

“It could only be a disappointment,” Lavellan says, flicking through the magazine on their bed, “I don’t look nearly as tortured or anguished - or as beautiful while being those things - in real life as I do in your sketches.” Lavellan’s voice warms, “I matter.”

“Of course you matter,” Bull says, picking up his tie off the bathroom counter. “I wouldn’t have stuck around this long if you didn’t.”

“Not that,” Lavellan snorts, “I meant - you told me that you only draw the things that stay with you. The things that linger in you, that make you. The private things that don’t die. You only draw and paint those things because for your work at the paper you photograph all the things you want to get rid of and all the things you want no one else to forget; but when you sketch and paint you’re bringing out the things no one else could ever see and the things you could never unsee.”

It didn’t sound nearly a fourth as poetic as how she said it just now.

“You matter,” Bull says, throwing the tie back onto the counter. It’s too formal and no one expects that shit from him. He leaves the bathroom, flicking the light off. “And I’m sorry that Leliana put all that out there without asking either of us.”

“I told you I don’t mind. That’s what happens when you suddenly disappear into the ether without warning your editor _or_ your partner. The editor breaks into your office to see if there’s any trace of you to find out if you’re dead or not while the partner gives her free reign to do so.” Lavellan says, looking up at him, ankles crossed in the air as she turns another glossy page. “You look formal. Disgusting. You’ve had better looks. Personally, I happen to like the look where you’ve found choice gossip with Josephine. It takes years off of you.”

“Years that _you_ put on me,” Bull sits down on the bed, looking over her shoulder at a picture of one of his sketches of her. Lavellan is sitting on the same bed, feet planted on the ground, head bowed down and staring at her hand. The faint outline of clothes are on the floor. It’s captioned _Grief is Solitary_.

Bull didn’t name it. He didn’t name any of them.

“When was this?” She asks, pointing at it.

“Dorian’s welcome back dinner at the university,” Bull answers instantly, “You didn’t want my help getting dressed. In fact you kicked me out of the room. It’s the stockings that got you. You managed the hair and the buttons on the back of the dress, but it was the stockings that got you stuck.”

Lavellan’s fingers trace the edges of the pages and she turns.

“And this?”

A faint sketch of Lavellan, back mostly turned, holding her prosthetic - Leliana had it captioned _Splinter Cell_.

“The first one Dagna sent you,” He answers, leaning close to her. Lavellan rolls towards him, bringing the magazine with her.

Lavellan is silent and Bull reaches out to slide his hand over her back, feeling the complex shift of bone and muscle underneath his palm as she keeps her balance on one elbow.

“And this?” Her voice is soft and Bull angles his head a bit as she turns the next page. “I don’t think I ever looked this peaceful then. Or now.”

Lavellan, asleep done in oils.

Bull bends down and rests his head against hers.

“Because you weren’t,” He says. “You were crying the night before. You wouldn’t calm down - nothing I said or did would get you to calm down or talk to me. I was tired and I didn’t know what the fuck else to do so I called Cullen and I didn’t even know what to say. But he heard you in the background and put his dogs on the phone for the rest of the night. You fell asleep that way. Just listening to his dogs.”

Lavellan leans into him.

“I’m sorry,” She says again.

“Then come with me to this stupid opening,” He says into her hair and she laughs and rolls into him, shoulder pushing into his chest.

“I’m not that sorry. Wear the tie. The floral one. Eat all the finger foods for me.”

-

“I don’t think I can have another cat, Leliana,” Cullen says as Leliana opens the cat carrier on his floor. “I’m not even good with cats.”

“Nonsense,” Leliana says, smiling a little as the cat pokes her head out of the carrier. She’s beautiful. Not a kitten but not quite fully grown, either. “You do so well with Bull.”

“Bull was Josephine’s first,” Cullen points out, “And he’s practically a person.”

Last Cullen saw, Bull was sitting in the high chair his sister leaves in his kitchen for when she leaves her kids with him. Bull was staring at him with his one eye and silently willing Cullen to cave and give him extra breakfast. He doesn’t know how Bull got in the chair because Cullen certainly didn’t put him there.

Cullen still isn’t convinced that Bull is some kind of stunted or mixed breed mountain lion or some other sort of wild cat. He’s just _so big_.

“What if Blackwall doesn’t like her? She’s been doing well with you so far.”

The cat has left the carrier and is exploring the contents of Cullen’s coffee table, tail aloft and slightly curled, ears perked.

“Blackwall does nothing but brood and wait by your door,” Leliana snorts. At the sound of his name, the dog’s ears prick towards them and then away as he continues to stare out of Cullen’s front window.

No one is quite certain _what_ Blackwall is listening for, but whatever it is, he’s ready for it.

“Besides, Lavellan doesn’t like me.” Leliana bends down and holds out her loosely curled hand towards the cat. The cat stares at her hand and crouches down. “She gets along with Cassandra and as patient as Cassandra is, she doesn’t have the energy for this one.”

Cullen imagines the German Shepherd and the Lavellan and immediately understands. Cassandra isn’t exactly the most patient dog - a good dog, yes, a kind dog, yes, a brave dog, certainly. Patient and gentle? Not so much when repeatedly poked by a curious and young kitten.

“She doesn’t like Vivienne, so Josephine can’t keep her,” Leliana says.

Cullen sighs and tentatively holds out his hand towards her, “And what if she doesn’t like me?”

Lavellan’s tail twitches but she comes over to him and starts to nose and nuzzle at his hand, letting out a plaintive _muriao!_

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Leliana says as Lavellan immediately bypasses his hand entirely and starts to rub against his shins. Cullen picks her up and she stretches her legs and paws, mewing and twisting in his hands to curl into his arms exactly how she wants after a good stretch.

Cullen resigns himself to another cat.

“What if the Bull doesn’t like her?” Cullen asks.

Leliana snorts, “The Bull likes all women.”

As if summoned by the mention of his name in the same sentence as _women_ , the Bull pads into the living room - a solid mass of fur and muscle and fat that Cullen doesn’t have the heart to try and reduce because for one thing he’s pretty certain Bull is hunting half his meals - Cullen isn’t feeding him that much to make him so large - and because the veterinarians give him a clean bill of health every time. Bull climbs onto the sofa and starts nosing at Leliana’s hand, deep rumbling car engine of a purr emanating from his chest as Leliana laughs and begins to pet him.

The couch cushion sinks a little - _a lot_ \- with the Bull’s weight. Honestly, there has to be something in there - lynx, mountain lion, _cougar_. Something. No house cat should be that large.

Lavellan squirms out of Cullen’s hands before he can stop her and goes up to Bull, pushing at him with her paw and letting out a high pitched _miaor!_

The Bull turns around and stares at her, then turns his eye onto Cullen as if to ask _is this for real?_ Lavellan bats at Bull’s tail and continues to mew at him. Bull’s purring stops.

Leliana and Cullen stare at the two cats.

Lavellan crouches down low, ears pricked forward. Bull half-rises, ears pricked back.

Lavellan doesn’t stand a chance if Bull pounces.

Lavellan slowly stretches out a paw and pushes against Bull’s hind quarters and mews again.

Bull’s ears and tail relax and he turns around, offering his face to her. Lavellan pushes her face against his and purrs.

“Problem solved,” Leliana says as they both let out a deep sigh of relief. “She’s yours now. Congratulations on another cat. They have healing powers, you know.”

“You’ve said,” Cullen laughs a little as Lavellan begins to try and goad Bull into a tussle. Bull lies down and ignores her. “I was planning a nice day in, and now I’m going to have to go and buy more cat supplies, aren’t I?”

“Such is the life of a cat parent,” Leliana says standing and picking up the cat carrier. “It never ends.”


	6. Chapter 6

“So you’re the Herald of Andraste, it could have been worse,” The woman’s teeth flash like water and scales. Bull isn’t sure if he likes her guts or wants to cut his losses and call the entire thing a waste. “It could have been a Dalish mage. I’m Lavellan.”

“So I guessed,” Bull holds out his hand and she shakes it, palm wet with sea spray. “Your man talked highly of you.”

“Dorian only likes to speak well of me when I’m not present,” Lavellan laughs, and then stage whispers, “He thinks it would give me a bloated ego if I heard him say nice things about me. He’s not exactly wrong - who wouldn’t like to hear nice things about them from the people they love? - but I still get the same feeling when I hear about it from other people talking about him talking about me. It’s like he thinks they wouldn’t say anything at all. Speaking of saying things - I think we should talk away from the dead bodies. Sera the point of being a throat cutter is to make it quick and simple not to carve them up. _Please_. Some of us want to have stomachs for a late supper.”

The blonde elf who was busy rifling through pockets of a nearby Venatori soldiers rolls her eyes and flips Lavellan off.

“That’s Sera,” Lavellan says as they walk away from the coast and onto the sand banks, “If we do end up joining mind yourself. She’s very opinionated and very short tempered. Amazing shot but she can literally burst into fire if you irritate her too much. I’m fairly certain that Dorian does it on purpose. For sport.”

“Interesting group,” Bull muses.

Lavellan’s scale and steel smile flashes again.

“More interesting than a Qunari Tal-Vashoth mercenary being accursed of assassinating the Divine at the Conclave and joining a rebel army called the Inquisition?”

Bull’s own smile is Seheron and swords. Equal sorts of danger.

“What do you think of our work? We don’t have as much of a wide reputation as your Chargers do, I admit,” Lavellan shrugs, “But being a group comprised of alienage elves, Tevinter outcasts, and Dalish mages, it can be hard to find employment.”

“I know your group,” Bull says, crossing his arms, “The jobs that do hold up their contracts with you speak highly. You have a dedicated clientele. Looking to expand that?”

“You’ll notice that for people with slim options we’re rather picky about who we take money from,” Lavellan leans against a large piece of driftwood, tapping the end of her staff against the wet gravel. “The Inquisition just happens to fit our categories.”

“Bad prospects with good intentions.”

Lavellan laughs, “We like the underdogs.”

Bull snorts, “Anything I should know before I say yes on behalf of the Inquisition?”

“We get paid monthly and we reserve the right to call off at any time,” Lavellan immediately replies, “And if any of yours cross any of mine, you’ll know why my band is called Wolf’s Teeth.”

-

“What the hell is going on? Half the hired hands in the damn country are disappearing. The Blades of Hesserian, Sutherland’s company, Valo-Kas, the Cadash, the Iron Bull’s Chargers - _is there anyone left_? None of them responded to the call. And I’ve never heard of the Valo-Kas turning down money,” Duhaime leans forward onto the table, looking at the worried and irritated faces of his fellow Venatori.

“And the Cadash are carta hands,” Lephus says, “Normally they do whatever pays and whoever has the best contracts. From what I’ve heard the Cadash have almost withdrawn completely from the market. There must be something we don’t know about.”

“The smaller gangs and circuits are all being absorbed into bigger ones,” Lucanus rubs a hand over his forehead, “It’s making it hard and harder to get runners and hands. I have deadlines approaching and no one to spare. In fact I’m _losing them_.”

The Master will not be pleased. Silence rings around them.

“Looking pretty grim for a bunch of middle to high ranking Venatori. Problems with taking over Thedas’ underworld and turning it into a conglomerate?”

They turn and see the Iron Bull, himself, stepping into the room.

Duhaime stands, going for his gun, “Who let you in?”

“Relax, I’m just here to talk,” The Iron Bull holds out his hands, easy, “I got your message. Just wanted to give you the courtesy of a response is all.”

Lucanus warily gestures at the Iron Bull, “Thank you.”

“And that response is to let you know that we - as in, _we hands for hire_ , like the Blades of hesserian, the Valo-kas, the Chargers, and shit - are no longer on the market. We probably wont _ever_ be on the market for open contracts again. At least, not to you.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means we don't want your money,” The Iron Bull says, turning to look at Duhaime, “Because you are all greedy xenophobic nationalistic pieces of shit who’ve pissed us all off so much that we’ve entered exclusive contracts with the Inquisition to shut you down.”

“The Inquisition?” Lephus exclaims, voice growing high. “The Inquisition couldn’t have possibly bought you all out.”

“That’s right,” Bull nods, “That tiny little operation you thought you could shut down? Turns out the harder you push against them the more pissed off they get. Spite is actually a pretty good motivator. The Boss sent me to let _your_ boss know that the Inquisition doesn’t tolerate this kind of bullshit.”

The sounds of gunfire and yelling slowly become audible from outside the door.

“I thought you were here to talk,” Lucanus says, slowly standing up and moving to bolt.

“That I am. Like I said,” The Iron Bull begins to smile, “ _I’m_ here to talk. _They’re_ here to send the message home. _Clear_.”

Bull moves to the side in time for the door to crash open and Inquisition marked enforces come pouring through.

The gunfire is useless against the Templar branded riot shields and the Circle weapons.

It’s over in minutes.

Bull watches as the Venatori leaders are rounded up. Boss said no killing, not yet. Not this time. That shit is for later. There’s information to be harvested first.

The Inquisition forces pause and stand at attention, saluting before getting back to work. It almost reminds Bull of the army.

“Boss,” Bull nods at the woman who comes in, flanked by Cullen and Cassandra.

Lavellan has Bull’s jacket around her shoulders - it looks like she’s wearing a trench coat.

“It’s done?” She says, looking around and nudging a crate with her flip-flop. Someday someone’s going to get her to wear something suitable for a raid. Something that isn’t a sundress and flip flops.

But that’s not Bull’s job and that day clearly wasn’t today.

“Got three from the middle of the chain,” Bull reports, “With luck they’ll have some useful information.”

She nods, “Any of them useful in breaking the hold the Venatori has in the Graves? I have a deal with Fairbanks for supplies that I need to pull through.”

“We got Duhaime,” Bull says and Cullen lets out a low whistle.

Lavellan smiles and reminds everyone of why they do this when she does.

“Nicely done,” She says, “Send him to Leliana. We don’t have time for Sera and Vivienne to wear him in. I’m going back to base, Josephine called about fifteen minutes ago. She’s gotten information from one of our contacts in Val Royeaux. We might have a possible turn coat we can deal with.”


	7. Chapter 7

“ _You_ know the Warden Commander?” Alistair gapes, turning to Leliana, “Did you know that?”

Leliana shakes her head staring at the spymaster with awe, “No, I didn’t. You were one her companions during the Blight?”

“Big woop,” Sera snorts, “Not that big of a deal. Demons this, darkspawn that, asshole after the throne. Blah, blah, blah. Same old shit you get all the time. I mean look at us right now. Demons this, darkspawn that, _asshole after god hood_. Selfish nationalistic prick.”

“What was she like?” Alistair leans forward onto the table, all eyes and eagerness.

“Nice tits,” Sera says after a moment and Alistair flushes red to his roots.

“ _How would you know that_?”

Sera gives him a _look_.

“I know because her partner’s surgeon got a feel when he was trying to restart her heart after we got knocked on our asses by werewolves. What the fuck, right? _Werewolves_.”

“She has a lover?”

Leliana, Sera is beginning to learn, likes gossip a lot. It’s a good trait in a spymaster. She just didn’t think it would be a trait in the Divine’s informal left hand in training, something something, important titles. In general Sera didn’t think the people of the cloth were into such vices.

Good to know there’s regular people underneath all that pomp and gold and lessons and shit.

“No,” Sera says, “A _partner_. They never got to the nasty bits. I dunno, don’t ask me. I’m not them. Anyway, yeah. The Iron Bull. Leader of the Chargers. You know. The merc band that came down here and has been eating us out of house and home ever since they heard about Wardens getting corrupted? Them. That’s them. They’ve been looking for her. We’ve all been.”

Sera isn’t sure if they’re looking for her because they’re worried about her, because they’re pissed that she’s gone and fucked off somewhere, or because they need something. By _they_ she means a little of everyone. Even the people who aren’t here right now.

Dorian and Josephine and Vivienne have been writing nonstop to Sera and Varric for the past ten years trying to find her, and the letters have only been increasing in frequency. Pentaghast says nothing, but Sera can tell she’s worried.

Rutherford doesn’t ask but he has his reasons. It was complicated. It’s always complicated.

“The _Qunari_?” Alistair’s voice grows high.

Sera regrets letting the two of them into her office during her quiet time. In her defense they seemed like good people and it gets annoying being treated like someone mysterious and big just because she runs the Inquisition’s information network.

She hates that Varric roped her into it. What a tit. He could’ve done it himself.

“Don’t you have an Inquisitor to moon over or something?” Sera asks, because Lavellan and Bull are old news, no big deal, not really important or anything. They’re just them. Weird, but a good kind of weird because you can’t not like people who’re that good to each other and make each other that much better. Not always happy, though.

There’s a reason why they’re so off and on. But Sera knows. When it comes down to it, those two would fly across continents to be together.

Sera’s almost jealous.

“It’s just that the Hero of Ferelden is so _mysterious_ ,” Leliana says, “No one really knows anything about her. She ended the Blight in one year - and she was so efficient about it that people say that it wasn’t even a real Blight, Archdemon or no.”

“Trust me, as someone who was there when that bullshit was going on, _she wasn’t efficient_ ,” Sera snorts. “Efficiency wasn’t in her vocabulary. That entire ending the Blight in less than a year shit? _Good luck_ and a herd of baby sitters like Pentaghast. Didn’t help that Bull wanted to fight every single damn dragon we met.”

“Is it true that they really confessed their love covered in dragon blood next to its corpse?” Alistair asks.

Bull’s dick was kind of visible at the time, Sera thinks.

“Don’t be gross,” Sera answers, “It was in the middle of camp as we were dividing its internal organs to sell on the black market and she was up to her elbows in intestines.”

-

“Well, well, what do we have here,” Trevelyan turns and sees a Dalish woman descending one of the many gilded staircases of Halamshiral towards her. Leliana’s warning slides to the front of her mind.

It would have been nice, Evelyn thinks, if Leliana had been a tad bit more specific in that warning.

The woman smiles, dark hair and dark eyes and a dark sense of _other_ that Evelyn cant quite place.

“Snooping, Inquisitor? I suppose that’s what one must do, if one is the Inquisitor. It implies so in the name, does it not?” The woman says, “Forgive me, I am Ellana. Your Spymaster warned you about me, I think.”

“A Witch of the Wilds,” Evelyn says.

“One of the last few left,” Ellana confirms, “There are so few of us who heed our Sire’s shadow.”

The woman adjusts the thick pelt of fur around her slender shoulders. The second bell rings and Evelyn’s pulse jumps with anxiety. To trust or not to trust, is always the question that fucks her up. If only Bull or Vivienne were here. They’re much better discerning than she is.

“And now that we are fashionably late, shall we enter together?” Ellana offers her arm, “There are those in your Circle who have been looking for me. I dislike being looked after. I much prefer to do the looking, myself. Tell me, has the Iron Bull been well under your care?”

“You know the Bull?” Evelyn asks, cautiously taking her arm as they enter the doors to the grand ballroom. Her eyes immediately find Leliana’s and Leliana shakes her head. Evelyn gestures at Ellana. It’s too late _now_.

“Of course, who in the court of the Empress Celene doesn’t?” Ellana laughs when Evelyn’s mind stumbles. “No, we do not know each other _that_ way. I did employ him, however, for a time, to assist me in escaping those who hunt the followers of the Wolf. We grew close. But my Sire had always warned me about men with kind hands, so I left.”

“You left?” Evelyn asks despite herself, curious about this woman and the Iron Bull.

Ellana pulls her closer, warm, as she nods. Evelyn can’t help but stare. The Iron Bull is a good man.

Evelyn sees him through the crowd, heads and shoulders above everyone else and visible because of that - despite the distance.

The Iron Bull’s eye is on Ellana, face unreadable like stone wet with rain. When Evelyn turns Ellana is looking back at him, that same expression mirrored with a touch of crumpled roses at the edges.

Ellana turns towards Evelyn breaking the eye contact as they begin to descend into the crowd, and whispers into her ear arm sliding out of Evelyn’s, “Because my Sire warned me about people with kind hands and brave hearts. We break them too easily; so I left. Go ask your questions, Inquisitor. I sense that you are of that very same sort.”

Evelyn turns to try and catch her, but Ellana is like mist made out of fur and impossible Dalish _power_ in the heart of Orlais, and Evelyn is left with nothing but a small key in the palm of her glove.


	8. Chapter 8

“But Bull,” Lavellan turns to stare at the man next to her, “If _you’re_ a pansexual queer Qunari Tal-Vashoth, and _I’m_ an asexual and queer elf Dalish mage, _then who’s the straight white human who’s the butt of all our jokes_?”

All the com lines go on at once and at least six people say, “ _Cullen_.”

Cullen’s line switches on immediately after, “I can _hear you_.”

Leliana and Sera sound like they might get seriously injured laughing.

“Cullen can’t be entirely straight,” Lavellan says.

“His middle name is Stanton,” Leliana says, “Yes he can be.”

“What does my name have to do with this? What does any of this have to do with anything?”

“Oh, Curly,” Varric sighs, “The material writes itself with you. You’re one terrible TV trope away from being on the cover of some shitty romance novel.”

“You mean one of yours?” Bull asks.

“Exactly,” Varric answers.

“I can’t believe you thought I was straight,” Bull turns towards Lavellan. “Dorian and I made out drunk at least three times that you know of.”

“You could have been repressing,” Lavellan says, “I don’t know!”

“Can we please focus on our op?” Cullen says.

“No, I want to hear this shit go down,” Sera says.

“The op can wait, chances are it’ll go terribly anyway,” Dorian chimes in, “Might as well be entertained by it _Stanton_.”

“You had to tell them my middle name,” Cullen grumbles.

“It’s too good to hold onto,” Leliana replies. “It’s just _too good_.”

“I’d retaliate but no one knows your last or middle name,” Cullen mutters, “I can’t believe you were able to get that _redacted_ on your own file.”

“The perks of being the head of intelligence,” Leliana says.

“Not to interrupt this fascinating series of events,” Cassandra cuts in, “But our target is moving and I need back up. That means the rest of you - except Leliana and _Stanton_.”

Cullen makes an exasperated noise and his line cuts off.

The rest of them move into action.

As Lavellan dashes over the grass, deftly using Bull’s back as a springboard to vault over the fence she smiles at him, “I want you to know that even if you were a straight not at all queer man - and a white human - I’d still love you the way I do.”

“Thanks babe,” Bull says, “But could you hurry and de-electrify the fence? I can hear the sound of Cassandra grinding her teeth as she single handedly holds an armored vehicle in place with her bare hands while everyone laughs at us.”

-

“They’re your kids and therefore your problem before dawn,” Bull says into the pillow, “That’s the deal. That’s literally the only reason why we moved in together, because you felt sorry for me and my herd of asshole douchebags.”

Lavellan grumbles and tunnels deeper into the mattress, squirming in between his chest and the bed. “I never made any such deal. They’ve always been _your_ kids and I’m just along for the ride. Also _you_ moved into _my_ house.”

“They respect your authority more than mine,” Bull says - it’s reaching, but not by much. Because it’s true. Talk about grateful, he’s sent almost all of them to college or alternatively gotten them out of jail but they give him shit every hour of the day. Lavellan waltzed, skipped, tangoed, foxtrotted, swung, spun, and spiraled her way into their lives four years ago and they’d do cartwheels on coal blindfolded while knives are thrown at them for _free_. - , but adjusts their position better so that he’s still giving her his weight without crushing her. He doesn’t know why she piles so many blankets on the bed if she’s just going to use him as a giant heating pad.

(“I’m not paying for central heating when I have hot water bottles, a dog, blankets, and _you.”_ )

“Chief, come _on_ , you promised,” Krem yells from the door, pounding on it like the uncivilized hooligan Bull tried to get him not to be, “You said we’re going to the farmer’s market as soon as it opens, so we’re going.”

“There, you promised,” Lavellan says, shoving her entire head underneath a pillow, “Not my problem.”

Bull groans.

“Why did I become a foster parent?”

Lavellan snorts and shifts to squeeze his leg between hers.

“ _Chief, I did not drive fifty miles through wet country roads with an grumpy Skinner, a post-finals Stitches, and a hung over Rocky for you to sleep through this_.”

“You’re a goddamn adult, Aclassi, take yourself to the farmer’s market,” Bull barks, “Decent people are asleep at this hour.”

“Good thing there’s no one decent in this house,” Krem says.

“Rude, there’s Cole _,_ ” Lavellan says, pulling her head out from under the pillows. She pushes up onto her elbows, twisting to kiss Bull on the cheek before squirming out from under him and out of bed. “Have I mentioned how sweet it is that you all visit your foster father even though you’re all in your late twenties and thirties? Because it is. It’s very sweet. Did you bring me breakfast, Krem?”

“Yes’m,” Lavellan opens the door and flings her arms around Krem’s neck, kissing him on the cheek.

“ _Yes’m_ ,” Bull mocks, “How come you do nothing but give me cheek but you’re so nice to her? _I raised you_.”

“Because she’s nice,” Krem answers, “And because it makes you make that face like you don't know if you’re having a heart attack or if your heart is growing three sizes too big.”

“Well now that you have her I’m going back to sleep,” Bull says.

“Yeah, _no_ ,” Krem says and then there’s the sound running and then something big and heavy lands on him with a loud _shriek_.

Bull grunts on impact.

“What the fuck - “

“Chief!” Bull spits out blonde hair and Dalish beams at him, “I made back across the border! I’m alive!”

“Fucking _shit_ , Dalish,” Bull sits up, “You’re _alive_.”

“Adorable, really,” Krem says, “I mean illegal in that you’re teaching her how to smuggle herself across international borders for fun, but also adorable. Can we _please_ get going now? If Skinner has to deal with anymore of the contemplative silence of the countryside she might snap and pull a _Silence of the Lambs_.”


	9. Chapter 9

  
“Bull and Lavellan have a kitten,” Cullen blurts out into the phone and Josephine’s side is silent for a moment before she slowly answers -

“I thought you had Lavellan fixed.” Josephine had Bull fixed as soon as she got him.

Cullen belatedly remembers that her time zone is three hours behind and the he has a habit of waking up rather early for someone who works from home.

“I’m sorry - I woke you,” Cullen doesn’t ask if he did because he knows it must be true. It’s three in the morning where Josephine is and as dedicated a worker she is, even she doesn’t keep those kind of hours. “And I did. I - I’m sorry, I should clarify. Lavellan was not pregnant, the kitten is not from either of them that I know of, and there is only one not a litter so it definitely can’t be theirs. Good morning, Josephine.”

Cullen is entirely certain that he would have noticed if Lavellan was pregnant, or if his two cats were having relations with each other.

“What do you mean they have a kitten?”

“They have a kitten, singular. One kitten,” Cullen says, “I’m not ready for another cat. I’ve had Lavellan for three months and I’m just getting used to her.”

Lavellan, apparently, didn’t need to get used to him. It’s a stark difference from how Blackwall and the Iron Bull entered his home.

“Start from the beginning, Cullen,” Josephine says, calm and incredibly kind in that unlike Leilana she isn’t laughing at him or hung up already, “Walk me through this.”

“I woke up to Lavellan scratching at the back door,” Cullen says, “I thought she wanted to get out. But when I opened the door Bull was on the other side carrying a kitten. No - well. All cats look like kittens compared to Bull, this one is probably around Lavellan’s age.”

“And now?”

“And I let them in and now Bull is mothering the thing while Lavellan is treating it like a playmate. Blackwall doesn’t seem to care either way on the matter.”

Josephine ponders this for a moment before asking the question that’s been tying Cullen’s brain in knots for the past half hour.

“Where did the cat come from?”

“I don’t know!” Cullen bursts out and then quickly lowers his voice when both Bull and Lavellan give him disapproving looks, “No collar - I’ll have to take it to the vet to see if there’s a chip, but if it does have an owner how do I explain that my cat kidnapped their cat and has now adopted it as a surrogate child?”

Josephine sighs, “Cullen your nearest neighbor is fifteen minutes away. It’s probably a stray.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Then you explain the situation as you did with me and all will be well. I doubt you’ll be arrested because of your cats affectionate tendencies.”

-

“Holy shit, Curly, I thought you had _one cat_ , not fifty.”

Blackwall turns and gives Cullen a flat look. Cullen gives the dog a firm pet on the head and Blackwall’s tail thumps a few moments before he goes back to waiting by the porch. Cullen isn’t even sure if Blackwall sleeps. He’s always guarding something.

“Varric,” Cullen says, stepping aside to let Varric and Hawke through, “I didn’t know you were coming by. With _guests_.”

Hawke grins at him, “Varric said you had cats. I had to see it for myself, Rutherford. Just be happy it isn’t Marian.”

Cullen sighs as Varric bends down to inspect Bull who’s curled up on the window facing the porch.

“This can’t be a cat,” Varric says.

“Bull’s bulked up since you last saw him,” Cullen says, “Who told you I have a new cat?”

“Leliana,” Hawke says, “Where is she?”

That’s actually what Cullen is trying to figure out. He hasn’t seen Lavellan in three hours and he’s concerned.

Either she’s going to spring out any second to give him a stroke or she’s gone missing.

“I think your cat ate your kitten,” Varric says. The tip of Bull’s tail gives a lazy twitch.

And then -

“ _Prmew!_ ”

All eyes turn onto Bull who just serenely stares back of them, oblivious to the fact that they’re all baffled by the fact that he just let out the highest pitched meow that they’ve ever heard from something so _big_.

Seconds later Lavellan’s head pops out from underneath Bull’s massive chest of fur and she shakes her head, blinking at them before twisting her head to nuzzle at Bull’s chin.

Bull’s eye closes and he starts up his rumbling jet engine of a purr.

“Your cat,” Garrett says going closer and pulling out his phone, “Is like one of those tiny clown cars with the infinite clowns. I love it.”

Even as Garrett speaks, more cats start to pop out from underneath Bull, climbing off the ledge to investigate their guests.

“They _multiplied_ ,” Cullen whispers with slight horror because he doesn’t recognize at least three of them.

“Only you,” Varric says, “You are a literal gold mine of shit, Rutherford. I need to visit more.”

Lavellan and Krem are the last to leave Bull’s mysterious vortex of cats, most of the kittens congregating around Garrett and his phone as he films them.

Lavellan goes up to Varric and starts curling herself around his legs for attention.

“Hey beautiful,” Varric lets her butt her head against his hand, “You look better and better every time I see you. Country life must suit you, huh?”

Cullen forgets that Lavellan was brought to Leliana by Varric after he found her in one of the trashed work sites outside of Kirkwall. Lavellan purrs.

“So this is the famous Lavellan,” Hawke turns his attention onto her.

Lavellan stops purring and looks at Hawke, tip of her tail curling.

Hawke holds out his hand to her. Lavellan leans forward as if to sniff it, then abruptly bristles and dashes towards Cullen, twisting through his legs and hiding behind him, ears flat and low to the ground.

Following Lavellan’s lead, all the other kittens and cats suddenly scatter.

Krem jumps up and hides on the top of Cullen’s bookshelf, peering out from behind a box. Two of the kittens skid underneath the sofa. Another one flees the room entirely. One runs back to the Iron Bull and jumps up to dart underneath him again. And the last one squeezes itself behind the bookshelf and disappears from view entirely. Cullen does not look forward to fishing it out.

“Huh,” Garrett blinks.

“Funny,” Varric says, “Lavellan’s not normally shy.”

Cullen bends down to pick Lavellan up. She doesn’t go easy, her legs are stiff and her tail bristled, but once he has her up she easily melts and climbs over his shoulders and curls around his head.

-

“ _Leliana please_ ,” Cullen says, “I think Lavellan is going to die.”

“What?”

“She’s taken after Bull except she doesn’t adopt other cats - _Leliana there is a wolf in my back yard and I think it’s half a moment away from eating my cat_.”

Cullen woke up to the sound of Bull growling and Blackwall snarling.

Both are unusual in that both animals are normally rather quiet. Bull’s gotten into scuffles with other animals before but it’s quite rare, and Blackwall’s normally one for barking and getting Cullen first.

He had gone downstairs and gotten the poker from the fireplace, and then went to the back door where both Bull and Blackwall were. Bull’s ears were flat against his head and he was one giant ball of bristling fur. Blackwall looked ready to break down the door.

And when Cullen looked through the screen he saw why.

There was a wolf sitting in the middle of the yard, right next to the vegetable patch, while Lavellan was trying to goad it into playing.

Cullen immediately called Leliana because if he gets sued for killing or injuring a wolf on his property he wants it on record with his favorite lawyer that he did it in defense of his cat who really, really, ought to have known better.

(Bull would fight a wolf, but that’s a different story.)

“What do you mean she’s adopted a wolf?”

“I mean there’s a wolf in my back yard and she’s trying to play with it.”

Lavellan appears to be jumping and pouncing about at the taller grass and after a second she seems to -

“Oh god,” Cullen blanches, “ _Wolf pup.”_

Lavellan’s pounced on a wolf pup and now the two are tousling about while the larger wolf looks on.

Cullen opens the screen door to possibly do something stupid. Bull and Blackwall immediately push past him and run out into the yard. The wolf looks up at them and tenses, ears flicking forward between Lavellan and Bull and Blackwall.

“Are you sure it’s a wolf and not one of those fox coyote hybrids in cities?” Leliana asks.

“The nearest traffic light is twenty minutes away, Leliana,” Cullen snorts, “This is a wolf.”

“I’m sending one of my people down,” Leliana says, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Please tell that to my cat.”


	10. Chapter 10

“I come before you, Father of Wolves, to seek a boon.”

Solas glances down, momentarily surprised - “Daughter of Wolves, last and only, what causes you to kneel before me? Rise, child, do not demean yourself in such a way. I did not raise you for such actions. Tell me, what brings you to return to my den?”

Lavellan looks up, raising her hands to him. Solas takes her hands in his and pulls her to standing.

“Are you unwell?” He asks, “The Fade is unkind, were you hurt?”

And then, carefully, squeezing her hands in his, “Did the others seek to hurt you?”

“No,” She shakes her head, “I have avoided the others of the Pantheon successfully in my hunts, Father of Wolves. I come to ask for a favor. I come to ask that you permit me leave to descend to the mortal world - to see and been seen, so that I may affect the tides of change.”

Solas releases her hands and steps back, “That is a boon I would never give you. You know this. You know I disapprove of those of the Fade mingling with those of the mortal realm. You dare to ask?”

“I dare,” Lavellan says, darting around him as he turns back on her to return to his crafting, “Please. The mortals struggle, they suffer - “

“To live is to suffer, such is the nature of life so that one may know defeat and thus, victory,” Solas replies -

“And through victory, humility,” Lavellan finishes dutifully, she snags at his robes, “But they suffer. They are in over their heads. They pray and cry for help but their god is silent. They lose hope - and what is a world without hope? Without love and compassion?”

“They must learn to assist themselves, I will not open my gates for you,” Solas says, firmly grasping Lavellan’s shoulders.

“But it was not always so!” Lavellan protests, pushing his hands off her, frustrated hurt in her eyes; impatience and passion, the two root causes of every suffering. “You and the others would let us go and mingle freely! We had daughters and sons by them, we had wars and we had jubilation, we had triumphs and failures, but it was done hand in hand. Our lives were not separate.”

“And why are you the last and only of the Daughters of the Wolf?” Solas says, meeting her passion with facts, with history, with truth and with the undeniable sorrow he carries. “What happened to the rest of your kin? The Sons? The Daughters? Where are they, to make you the last and only?”

Lavellan flinches.

“You know what happened to your brothers and sisters,” Solas says, “And yet you ask me _why_? Why should I lose my daughters and sons so that they can die for the futile struggles of the mortals? Why should I be the one to watch them walk into their deaths so that they can add to the ever moving revolutions of time? Tell me - decades and centuries of mortal measure have moved, what causes you to protest now?”

Lavellan refuses to cast her eyes away, although there is a shimmer of hesitance and regret to her. Solas narrows his eyes, taking her chin in his hand and examining her closer.

“ _Who_ causes you to protest now?”

Lavellan takes in a breath, “He is a member of the Inquisition.”

Solas feels his jaw clench - not just a mortal, one of the mortals who faces death every day. A hero.

“He has suffered and endured,” Lavellan continues, “He continues to suffer, and the world rests upon this gathering’s shoulders; he does his best and beyond to hold it up with the rest of his fellows. But the chains of his past cling to him like spiderwebs in the dark. His heart is torn and his soul is caught in peril. He weakens, his past calls to him, seeking him like a strangling vine.”

“Name him,” Solas commands. “ _Name him to me_.”

“He has no name for he was never given one,” Lavellan says refusing to look away, “He calls himself the Iron Bull.”

Solas hisses, clenching her chin in his hand before letting go and turning from her - anger and disbelief pushing through his veins, “You ask me to send you to your death for one of the _Qun_? For one of _them_? Deniers and non-believers, destroyer of magic and spirit, deceivers and mind benders? _You fool! No!_ I do not permit this! _I will never permit this_.”

“He is not as they are!” Lavellan cries, “He does not believe as they do, he does not feel as they feel. The Iron Bull’s loyalty lies with the Inquisition and all that it represents: hope and a bastion against turmoil. The Qun no longer has him. He has sundered himself from them, but that wound is grievous and festers - untreated and given ill attention. I have spoken to the Heavenly Mother  -“

“ _You’ve what?”_ Solas turns on her. “Liar! You said that you have avoided the others. You go behind my back to speak with the Heavenly Mother?”

“For she and I share the same fears, the same concerns. Unlike the rest of you, the Heavenly Mother watches over the mortal realms and sees the darkness that threatens to engulf it. She foretells that should he fall to this wound so too will the Inquisition; and with the loss of the Inquisition so too shall the world. Th fall of the Inquisition changes the waters of life itself. _Please, I beg this of you._ I do not ask you to assist me, I do not ask you to intervene, I ask that you let me try. Should I fail the consequences I reap I will not ask to be spared from. I do not ask for your hand to save me. _Father, this is the purpose for which I have survived the culling of my kin for_. I cannot stand idle with the knowledge of their impending trials, holding the answer which could aide them, and allow them to walk blindly into the darkness. Nor did you raise me and my kind for such cruelty.”

Lavellan sinks to her knees, grasping at the hems of his robes, “I beg. I plead. I place myself in the fangs of the Wolf. _I cannot let them fall_.”


	11. Chapter 11

"They had you locked up tight,” Varric muses, “Iron, spell bindings, wards, the whole deal. Is this rock straight from the mountain heart? ”

“They had me in a wooden box before I drowned three of them in their sleep,” The spirit says, eyes flicking over the now dead bodies of the hunters, “That one.” She points, “He was the keeper of the seals.” Her eyes narrow, “I almost had that one before they got me into the stone.”

Krem goes to fish around the dead man’s pockets while Bull goes through their paperwork in their tent.

With any luck he’ll find something to bring back to the Inquisitor. The Venatori and their hunters weren’t supposed to have been operating here. The Free Marches, as far as the Inquisition was aware, were still Free.

“Got it,” Krem says, tossing the keys to Varric who starts to work on the locks.

Nasty piece of work, this.

Bull can still smell the ash in the air.

“How many of them did they burn?” Bull asks the spirit. She meets his gaze.

“Before or after I killed them?” She asks, “Before me five who withered with grief and were strong enough and quick enough and clever enough to end it themselves before the rest caught on. After these deep water dumb worms got wise to it? I had enough vengeance in me to drown three of them a day. The air was nothing but freedom. I suspect that’s when your Inquisition became alerted to the troubles of this forest.”

“Did they not believe help would come?” Stitches asks, bowing his head over the mound of ash that no doubt was the site of disposal.

The spirit sneers, drifting closer to Varric as more and more of the chains and locks on the stone box rattle loose.

“This far away from the reach and care of those who would have a care for them? With Corypheus so close and the border so weak? Unlikely. It is better to die than to be forced under the heel of such lily livered, thin blooded, gaping chum.” The spirit’s outline softens just a little, “If there was a sister of stone close at hand, I would have asked her to do the same for me.”

Bull doesn’t blame her. The Venatori are hard on the nature spirits, even harder on the forest kind. There’s plenty of them, after all. And each one of them can create an army with the right conditions.

“Last one,” Varric says and the last lock springs open and clatters to the ground. “Tiny help me with this lid.”

The spirit’s eyes linger on Bull as he moves to lift the heavy lid from the stone box, there’s the slight resistance of magic, before it slides off and onto the ground with a heavy thud.

The spirit lets out a rushing sigh and fades into mist. Inside of the box there is a woman, pale with the same watery hair and dark eyes and pearlescent skin.

She opens her eyes and turns look up at him. He holds out his hand. She takes it, and he pulls her out of the small, small box that they forced her to curl up in. She unfurls like ink in water, and her hand is freezing.

“Where to now?” Bull asks.

“Wherever the tide wishes,” She says, “The ocean is in your favor.”

-

“Careful with this one, we’ve got it weakened but the ocean forest types are unpredictable,” The masked mage says. His associated tugs a little on the chain binding the Lavellan’s hands together and she hisses behind her iron mask. “We’ve had her on a dry land circuit for months, now and she’s still go fire in her to spare.”

“And that one,” the Venatori quartermaster asks, “Is that one good for anything?”

“The ox?” The mage tilts his head, “Manual labor, exotic shows, breeding perhaps. He seems to like it.”

The Iron Bull glares.

“He has one eye,” The second Venatori says, “Can he still work?”

“Two hands,” The mage replies. “Do we have a deal? I was told that the Venatori were buying _all_ stock. No matter how damaged or sub-par. Though what for I couldn’t imagine.”

“The Master has plans for these things,” The quartermaster says, “Sold for the bargained price. See our man, he will give you the money.”

“Of course,” The mage says, gesturing for his companion to lead the two to the side with the large cages. “If I acquire anymore where should I bring them? This site will be moved soon, no?”

“Yes,” The second Venatori confirms, nodding, “We cannot stay in place too long, you understand. Between the Southerners and the beasts and the weather it makes it impossible to set up permanent outposts. Our network will spread news of our next location when the time is right.”

“Ah that’s a shame,” The mage says, “I have more stock coming from Orlais - delayed by those very same Southerners and beasts and weather.”

“Inquisition?” The quartermaster says with a hint of disbelief, “You were able to move your stock through the Inquisition blockade?”

“Forest spirits direct from the ash of the Dirth,” The mage confirms, “And a few lightning types from the fulgurite of the coasts. It took some doing, but they’re on route. Perhaps a week or so to get here, I fear that I’ll have to sell them off immediately. You know how it is - the fire forest types are the hardest to keep alive in captivity, and the lightning stone types are almost twice as hard if not easily broken.”

The two Venatori glance at each other, conferring with each other in low voices before the quartermaster nods.

“I will show you our drop map,” He says, reaching into his pack, “And let us negotiate price. We are meeting up with another group of hunters and our cages and gold will be restocked then. We shall meet - “

“And that’s our cue,” The mage says dropping out of Tevene, “He has the map.”

“Fucking finally,” The Iron Bull says and Lavellan’s eyes glow - the iron of both their chains quickly corroding and rusting over before crumbling. “Laying it on thick there, weren’t you, Pavus?”

“He had to sell it, Chief,” Krem says, tossing aside the ruined chain and throwing the man a second blade. “I mean, I wouldn’t pay coin for you, either.”

Dorian throws off his mask and conjures up a wall of flame blocking the Venatori exit.

“You did say make it believable,” Dorian says. Lavellan raises her hands and raises the Venatori with them.

“Searched the cages,” Varric says, “And perimeter is clear. We’ve got this place locked down. Show me that map.”

Bull plucks the map from the frozen fingers of the Venatori and grimaces as he unfurls it.

“That’s the face of someone who’s lost a bet,” Rocky says.

“Why do you insist on betting against Varric?” Lavellan asks, drifting over to peer at the map, “How much money did you lose?”

Bull grunts, “You’re cheating somehow, dwarf. How the fuck did you name half the drop zones?”

“Unwavering faith in the stupidity of my fellow living beings,” Varric replies, “Pay up.”

-

The further down the steep mountains and hills they go towards the coast, the paler and more washed out and gray Dalish’s face looks.

“Go back,” Bull says, “It’s fine. Go back to one of the Inquisition camps and stay there.”

“No,” Dalish replies. Her forest, Bull remembers, is from the North East. She’s used to cold and wet, sure, but not this kind. Not this flurry of salt and lightning and rocky gravel underfoot.

In contrast, Lavellan’s face has taken on an almost _rosy_ hue. Bull is used to her like this - something from the deep.

Dalish has always reminded Bull of something silent, something dangerous. But it was a different kind of silence. A different kind of danger; she was more the danger of something moving low to the ground at night, eyes from underbrush and raised hackles and a silent curl of a tail and unnoticed unsheathing of claws.

Lavellan’s silence, Lavellan’s danger was the danger of the deep water; the danger of something sleek and ancient long unseen by anything the light touches; the danger of silver and scales that sees you long before you even know its there; the danger of something brushing against you in the dark and gone before you could sort your head out.

“There,” Lavellan calls out from ahead, taking off - leaping over boulders and bleached driftwood washed ashore.

Bull jogs after her, trusting Dalish to know her own limits. She’s gotten this far, after all.

As soon as Lavellan’s feet hit the sand and the shoreline, they disappear. It’s as if she’s returning to the water, melting and yet still solid.

Lavellan walks into the water, her body melting and dissolving against the water it touches, but staying firmly solid and defined above it.

A figure emerges from the sea foam, the same silver and scales as she is and holds his hand out to her. Lavellan rushes towards the figure, and the two collide like waves. For a moment the two seem to merge together, bodies turning clear and white and turquoise like the water, mixing and churning before they solidify again as two half melted shapes.

And then the second figure melts away, leaving Lavellan there as she slowly turns and walks back to the shore.

“Who was that?” Bull asks.

“One of my brothers,” She answers, looking up at him, face beaming and glowing. “Let us go.”

Bull feels his eyebrows raising. “Us?”

“I told you, my tide is yours,” She says, “I came here to tell my kin of what happened. And so I did. I released it into the waters, so that they may know. And in return they wish me well and grant me their blessing. I owe you my life, the Iron Bull, more than that my dignity and my freedom. My tide goes with you. The shelter of my leaves are yours. This is not where we say goodbye.”


	12. Chapter 12

"Yeah, thanks, _bye_ ,” Lavellan accepts a tray of dirt from the man and kicks the door closed in his face. Fenris tries not to be impressed. Being impressed by Lavellan is never a good thing and does definitely unhealthy things to Fenris’ wellbeing.

“That man," Fenris says, eyeing Lavellan’s tray of dirt as she shoves some plastic plates on the kitchen counter into the sink to make room for them, “Was flirting with you.”

It isn’t Fenris’ business and he doesn’t particularly care about what Lavellan does or who she associates with, but he does know that he probably owes it to her to point things like that out.

“Yeah, sure,” Lavellan replies, mostly ignoring him in favor of examining her dirt.

Fenris narrows his eyes, “Are you using a stranger’s apartment to grow the plants you cant fit in this one?”

“He has a north facing window with the _breezeway, Fenris_ ,” Lavellan exclaims, “ _The breezeway_.”

As if any of this means anything to Fenris. The best Fenris can do is not let the succulent Merrill bought him when he moved apartments die. It hasn’t grown nor has it died and he counts it as a win.

“What’s your business?” Fenris asks, “If anyone checks their _find my friends app_ or anything annoyingly similar and finds me here I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Lavellan gives him a fond look before pouring some tea.

“You say that but I know I’m growing on you.”

She is the least annoying side effect of being Merrill’s friend. This distinction is held in contention in a very close tie with discounts at local farmer’s markets.

Fenris accepts it, and goes one step further in inviting himself to a seat on her sofa. Because Fenris has _manners_ and he isn’t an uncultured and uncivilized barbarian, _Isabella_.

He glances at the tank of incredibly overgrown aquatic plants.

“Didn't this used to have fish in it?” Fenris asks. As if on cue, a large black fish with bulging eyes swims out of the greenery and fake coral, slowly gliding its way around the tank. “Is that a gold fish? What happened to the salt water tank?”

“Of course that’s a goldfish,” Lavellan says, folding herself up on the couch next to him, “I moved the salt water tank into the apartment across the hall.”

Fenris narrows his eyes at her, “North facing window and a breezeway.”

“They happen to like it,” Lavellan replies defensively, raising her chin up, “And Bull’s good with the salt water fish. They _like him_.”

“Your neighbor - who’s apartment you’re slowly colonizing - is named _Bull_.”

“I didn’t ask you here for you to pry into my life, Fenris,” Lavellan sighs, “I came to call in a favor. You owe me one.”

Lavellan points to her coffee table and Fenris glances at it, then lets out a long sigh because she has his laminated contract on it.

Lavellan is the only person Fenris knows who, when people owe her favors, has them sign a legal binding contract detailing the nature and restrictions of said favor. He has to admit, it’s _impressive_. He’s taken a page or two from her contracts before when dealing with stubborn ingrates at work. It gets the job done.

“Can you give me blackmail to convince Cullen to officiate my wedding?” Lavellan asks.

“You’re getting _married_?” Fenris stares at her. And then - “Why do you need to blackmail Cullen?”

“Because if I ask him flat out, he’ll say no because he’s shy and so incredibly self depreciating. I’m going to need blackmail to push him into doing it,” Lavellan replies. “And yes, I’m getting married.”

Fenris could ask to who, and since when were you seeing someone, and a dozen other questions about the schematics of the whole thing. But Fenris isn’t that type of person or friend. Frankly, as long as Lavellan is healthy and out of trouble he’s happy for her.

“I’m not giving you anything on Cullen because Varric owns exclusive rights to it due to a lost bet two years back,” Fenris says. “You shouldn’t have called me.”

“I’m not asking Varric because Varric asks too many questions,” Lavellan replies, “Besides, Fenris, favors are _owed_.”

“Not big enough for me to cross Varric,” Fenris snaps.

“I got your apartment to stop smelling like lavender after _two hours_ ,” Lavellan says, “ _And_ I got out every single grain and speck of crushed flower petals and potpourri. Under section B, sub section three, numeral two you will find that this classifies itself as a _large favor_.”

Fenris sighs, “ _Fine_. How much do you need and what do I have to do to make sure this never gets back to Varric?”

-

“Chargers?”

“Inquisition?”

“ _Bull?”_

 _“Lavellan_?”

Sutherland turns in time to see a woman fling herself out of the shadows and collide straight into the Chief.

Aclassi swears, “For fuck’s sake, it’s only _you_. Everyone stand down, it’s just Lavellan’s crew.”

Sutherland gapes and the woman firing arrows at them cusses.

“ _These are the new Chargers_? Fuck, Aclassi, I didn’t know you were taking on _babies_ now.”

“Pot meet kettle, Sera,” Rocky says and dodges the arrow the woman, Sera, half-heartedly shoots at his feet.

“Inquisition?” Sutherland asks and Aclassi shrugs.

“Boss!” Sutherland turns back and is immediately disgusted.

The Iron Bull and the woman Sutherland is guessing is the leader of the Inquisition and therefore Lavellan are kissing. Sutherland isn’t disgusted that they’re kissing, he’s accidentally seen Bull do more than that, it’s just that they’re so -

 _Adorable_.

Lavellan is laughing as Bull lathers kisses on her cheek and she returns some quick kisses of her own, the entire time held up in his arms with her own arms around his neck.

“Uh, _guys_?” Shayd hisses, Sutherland turns and sees Shayd nervously gesturing at a thin, smoke-like boy standing next to her with an incredibly awkward and painful smile.

“I’m glad we don’t have to fight anymore,” the boy says, curtain of thin hair that makes Sutherland think of straw covering his eyes.

“Cole, you don’t have to smile if you don’t mean it,” Stitches says, clapping the boy on the back, “Relax.”

“But Lavellan said I should smile to make people feel better,” Cole says through his teeth.

“You pretend around _strangers_ ,” The mage from the Inquisition side says, “It’s different with family.”

“And the Chargers are family,” Krem says, “It’s just that we’ve added on more family since you last saw us.”

“ _Oh_ ,” The boy immediately drops his smile - a relief, but also unnerving. Cole just looks like a confused sheet of paper, now. “I’m still glad we don’t have to fight anymore. I am sorry that I was about to hurt you.”

“What’s the Inquisition doing here?” Bull asks, apparently done being _cute_ with the Inquisition’s leader. “I thought you guys were taking a break from taking jobs for a while.”

“We are,” Lavellan says. The two are done kissing but they’re still holding each other. The Chief narrows his eye. “Your employer is _my_ \- as in _my personal_ \- target.”

“Great, thought he was a prick,” Rocky says, “Damn waste of ammunition.”

“You heard her, pack it up and go,” Krem says.

“But - the contract?” Voth asks, turning to Dalish who just shakes her head at him.

“Ah, so fresh, so green, so new,” The Inquisition mage says, “So young and wide eyed.”

“Cute, Pavus,” Aclassi shoulders the man. “Don’t worry. There’s this small clause in all of our contracts that most people look over. We hold the right to drop _and_ still get paid under certain conditions.”

“We don't cross Inquisition, basically,” Dalish says. “Because Inquisition only has certain types of targets. Targets that we both agree should be targeted.”

“And that means?”

“This one’s been fueling the local separatist movement in order to create stronger racial tension between the elves and humans,” Lavellan explains, jumping down from the Chief’s arms, “He and I are going to be having some words about that. With luck he’ll lead to some bigger fish and eventually I’ll have a certain wolf by the tail.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Behavioral training or exam?” The hulking mass of a person says, barely glancing up as Dorian enters the front room of the office.

“Pardon?” Dorian blinks, setting down Archimedes onto the floor.

“You’re not here for grooming,” The man says, looking at something in his hands behind the counter - probably texting - “Hairless cats don't really need grooming. So it’s either behavioral training or some kind of physical exam or something.”

“I was actually here to see if I need to make an appointment,” Dorian says, “And to find out more about this business. I don't just trust my cat to anyone.”

Before either of them can say anything further, the entryway door chimes open and Dorian turns to see a harried looking man with no less than three bags awkwardly struggling to hold the door open as a parade of dogs trots in.

Once the mass of dogs has entered the building, the man follows suit, awkwardly and carefully lowering the tote bags hanging off his shoulders to the floor to release even _more_ dogs.

“Rutherford,” The man behind the desk says as the blonde man with the slightly dazed and frazzled look that can only come from managing too many things at once walks past him and opens the door to what Dorian assumes is the main working offices of the veterinary practice.

“Bull,” Rutherford nods back, clearly moving on auto pilot as he gestures the dogs in.

“You’re missing two,” The receptionist - apparently a man named _Bull_ says.

“Maxwell’s facetiming his dogs in my car,” Rutherford answers, gently nudging a small pug into walking towards the doors with the tip of his shoe, “I’ll get them after this lot is sorted.”

“I figured,” Bull says, “You’re still missing two.”

Dorian stares at Rutherford. As if this - this _pack_ wasn’t enough?

Rutherford suddenly starts counting off on his fingers and muttering before blanching in the realization that he, most likely, _has_ forgotten two.

“I left them at Evelyn’s house,” Rutherford gasps, and then, blinking - stares at Dorian and then curls in a little on himself. “I’m sorry - was I interrupting?”

“I was just trying to make an appointment,” Dorian says, “Don’t mind me.”

Rutherford blinks, frowning and glances at Bull, “Are we supposed to be making appointments now?”

“He’s new,” Bull says, “No, you do not need an appointment. Cool it, Rutherford and get your other dogs.”

Suddenly the sound of something hissing and spitting comes from the depths of the office, made clear by the echoing walls and the fact that Rutherford is still holding the heavy door open.

“Sera’s lizard has a tooth ache,” Bull says by way of explanation.

Moments later a woman’s voice is heard yelling, “ _No!_ No more Binky for you! No more Binky until you behave! You are being very naughty Monoxide! Very naughty! You are being a bad example for Carbon and I will not have that in my office!”

“So,” Dorian turns to look back to Bull, “Behavioral or exam?”

-

“Right, almost forgot - don’t freak out but my house is haunted. You want a beer?”

“Your _what_ is haunted?” Krem gapes turning towards Skinner as if she can provide a better explanation.

Skinner shrugs, shoulders past him and follows Bull into his house.

“My _house_ Aclassi,” Bull calls from deeper inside, “I know you grew up poor as shit but I know you know what a house is.”

“I think he’s more hung up on the fact that you call it haunted,” Varric says, waving at Krem from where he’s seated in front of Bull’s TV. It looks like most of Bull’s things are unpacked. Cullen and Dorian are working on setting up his TV and his multiple electronic devices that hook up to it.

“How do you know it’s haunted?” Krem asks.

“Aclassi,” Bull says, handing Skinner a beer that she somehow opens with her bare hands - a trick she claims she learned in college, which is a lie because Skinner has never gone to college, a lie which when called out on Skinner replies _I never said it was my college_ \- “Since when have I looked like a buttercups and lavender kind of guy to you?”

He points out the window where, sure enough, the window boxes are full to bursting.

In fact _every_ window box that Krem can see is full to bursting.

“Dunno, Chief, you’ve always been more of a daisies kind of guy.”

“Exactly,” Bull says. “Also I’ve been playing a guessing game of trying to figure out her name for the past week since I moved in.”

“Her?”

“Chill, Cole and I spent a week confirming she’s a she and not a he or a they,” Bull says, “I’m not gendering a ghost wrong.”

Skinner meets Krem’s eyes and shrugs, sitting down on Bull’s sofa and putting her boots up on the coffee table.

“What do you mean guessing game with her name?” Krem asks instead.

“Check the hallway mirror,” Bull says.

“You own a mirror?”

“Couldn’t take it down,” Bull says, “Haunted house, remember?”

“Gently loved,” Krem startles and jumps straight up in the air, turning around to see Varric’s boy standing directly behind him. “She prefers the term _gently loved house.”_

 _“Cole_ ,” Krem says and Cole looks abashed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Show Krem the mirror, Cole,” Bull waves them off and Cole turns around, gesturing for Krem to follow.

Cole leads him into a narrow hallway and points at a nearly four foot long slightly tarnished mirror.

“She’s ready,” Cole says and then leans forward to breathe over the mirror.

In the fog over the glass the word _hi_ becomes clear.

Krem stares and the fog travels over the glass without anyone breathing on it to reveal an elaborate game of hangman.

“We have three letters,” Cole says, pointing.

Krem figures that with only two letters missing, it should be easy enough to guess.

“It isn’t the point to know,” Cole says. “I’m guessing obelisk.”

An invisible hand draws a cross on the mirror underneath the hangman and then draws a flower underneath the hanging figure. The figure is missing a leg.

Cole looks at Krem expectantly.

“Has anyone guessed closed parenthesis yet?” Krem says, and the invisible hand draws one out on the mirror and adds a bee around the flower. Aside from the fact the image is a hangman missing a leg, it’s a pretty nice picture that’s been drawn out on glass.

Real detailed.

“So, gently loved, huh?”


	14. Chapter 14

“So, zombies are a thing.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Bull says, waiting for Grim to signal the all clear before setting Dalish down. Dalish murmurs feverishly, shivering as he tries to set her up as comfortably as he can against the counter.

“And Dagna always said aliens,” Sera murmurs, “Alright so - we’ve got food, batteries - Lavellan, did this place have a pharmacy?”

“Yes,” Lavellan calls out, voice echoing through the store, “Also a bakery.”

“Score one for the not zombies,” Varric says, “This is why I never visit. Every damn time I visit shit happens. Weird anomalies in the sky, sunspots, drug rings, _zombies_.”

“Good news is that it’s contained to this county,” Bull says, “Because it’s in the middle of fucking nowhere and Walmart is apparently the biggest building they have.”

“Bad news is that the entire county is now zombies and we have to wait for Cassandra to bring down her almighty wrath like the hands of god,” Varric says, “Yeah, I got you.”

“Bet you she makes us wait because you’re here,” Sera says, bending down to check Dalish’s fever.

“Bet you it’s because you left her last serial on a cliff hanger,” Dalish murmurs.

“Sucker's bet but I feel sorry for you so I’ll take it,” Sera says.

The metal shutters rattle closed as Grim and Rocky finish securing it.

“I found cellphone chargers,” Lavellan says, coming back through to checkout with Cole. “I’m going to need help securing the warehouse docks, but I think we should try and bring our car around. Bull, did you get Stitches on the phone yet?”

“I regret not changing carriers,” Bull says in answer.

“I’ll call,” Sera says.

“I told you I give you the best adventures,” Lavellan says, ripping open the packaging for the phone chargers. “Don’t worry Cole, we can pay for it later _after_ we escape death and undeath and such. Can you go find some fire to re-kill the undead with?”

Cole frowns but goes off again.

“This isn’t what I’d call an _adventure_ ,” Bull muses, handing her his phone as she experiments with finding the right charger.

“And this is why I told you not to buy off brand,” Lavellan sighs, “I’m stealing you a new phone.”

“Though we were paying for it later?”

“Walmart can take the hit and I bet I can get Leliana to swing it,” Lavellan replies, “This is why you need to visit me more. Maybe if you visited me more the events that happen wouldn’t be so strange. It’s like all the exciting in the world built up while you were away and exploded right now.”

“So I should visit more so that when I _do_ come over it’s boring?”

“You heard about _zero_ percent of what I just said and you’re distracted by the fact that I’m opening plastic with my teeth,” Lavellan says around a mouthful of plastic, and then reaches out and pats his hand. “I’m flattered.”

“Scissors and knives can’t break that kind of packaging open but your teeth can, I’m amazed,” Bull says. “As an aside, even if zombies came around every time I came to visit you, I’d still visit you. Two months with nothing but these fucks would drive me crazy.”

“I love you, too,” Lavellan says, “But please just get a proper phone, even the cheapest cords aren’t working.”

-

“Don’t worry, I have him my pelt,” Lavellan says, “I’m not being held captive or anything.”

“I thought shape shifters hide their skins so people can’t take them,” Dorian says.

“Well I have his sword, so it’s fine,” Lavellan points out, gesturing to the giant hunk of metal on her back.

“I suppose that makes sense - more so than that sword being yours,” Dorian muses, “But if you can’t use that sword and it’s _his_ soul-sword how is he supposed to use it when he needs it if its with you?”

“I give it to him, Dorian, _obviously_. This isn’t that complicated,” Lavellan says, carefully pulling the sword off her back and lifting it, “Bull take your sword to prove to Dorian that I’m not keeping you captive against your will.”

The large horned demon chatting with Cassandra across the campsite tilts his head towards her and holds out his hand. The sword goes flying into his hand without him looking.

“See?” Lavellan says. “You shouldn’t listen to all the rumors about captive brides and contract demons and such. Most shapeshifter I know wouldn’t tolerate the idea of being a captive anything. Also most demons I’ve met tend to be quite courteous and honorable. They negotiate a very fair price. Most of it is nonsense spread by humans. No offense.”

“None taken. It’s our particular skill, spreading nonsense and other such detrius,” Dorian laughs, “So he really _didn’t_ steal your pelt while you were bathing or other such nonsense?”

“ _Please_ , if he did I would have knocked his head off his shoulders,” Lavellan rolls her eyes, “And no, I did not sell my soul or some other part of me to be able to hold that sword without burning to a crisp. Tell me, do you believe the nonsense about fairies growing out of buttercups, too?”

“No - is that actually a rumor?” Dorian frowns. In his research his study was mostly on ancient rituals and rites, not fairies. He’s certain that he probably has an outdated bestiary floating around his enchanted bag of holding. Though it might have come with the bag, now that he thinks about it.

“Well - not exactly. They actually come out from the undersides of mushrooms but in my experience those are only autumn and winter types,” Lavellan pauses, “Remind me what I’m here for again?”

“To welcome me to your band of adventurers and such,” Dorian replies.

“Ah, right, welcome,” Lavellan claps her hands together, “I hope you’re not afraid of ghosts because I know one that has about a dozen questions for you. And no, he wasn’t murdered. Probably. We’re not sure, exactly. I mean, _he_ isn’t sure, but since he isn’t sure I’m not sure. Point is, welcome aboard?”

-


	15. Chapter 15

“Bull, pack up we’re reassigned,” Bull glances up at Dorian, surprised.

“We just got here,” He says, “We haven’t even started our assignment _here_.”

“Commander Trevelyan’s orders,” Dorian’s expression darkens, “And you’re going to want to go on this one, trust me.”

“What?” Bull can’t imagine something so important it would draw them away from their assignment when they were literally just sent out here a few days ago. Any movement from Flame Legion is worrying, especially when it seems to be directed towards expanding outwards towards other human settlements. The Charr don’t need more of a bad rep than they already have.

“Pact forces have fallen,” Dorian says, “The entire air fleet is decimated. All members are directed to go support and search and rescue immediately.”

That gets Bull’s attention.

“Got it, I’ll tell the rest of my band to get ready to move out again,” Bull stands and Dorian holds his hand up.

“There’s more,” Dorian says, “Zhaitan’s forces were the undead. _This_ dragon’s forces are - “

Dorian pauses.

“Are?”

“Trees,” Dorian says, and when Bull doesn’t respond to that, “It’s the Sylvari, Bull. This dragon has corrupted the Sylvari. It’s turned into a damn man hunt over there. Every Sylvari soldier is either being imprisoned, killed on sight, or abandoned to whatever fate has left them in - whether they were corrupted by Modremoth or not.”

Fucking flames and ashes, Bull thinks dread expanding in his stomach and pushing up and up, painfully and slowly.

“Lavellan was there,” Dorian says, voice cracking as the bubble of dread bursts at the back of Bull’s mouth, “She was there with the airfleet, Bull.”

Bull’s heart pounds in his chest, “She was _what_?”

She said she was going back to the Grove. _She said she was going back to the Pale Tree._

“She was with the air fleet when they struck at Modremoth,” Dorian says, “Evelyn’s sending us to look for her because - “

Because either she’s dead, corrupted, or about to be worse if Pact soldiers find her.

“Move,” Bull says, already pushing forward before Dorian can get out of his way. “ _Chargers! Pack up and move out!_ We’re headed to the Maguuma.”

-

“Malomedies? Firstborn Malomedies, teacher, are you here?” Lavellan calls into the bower, stepping aside for her fellows as they leave heads bowed in discussion.

“Yes, sister,” She hears from deeper into the roots and caverns, “Come close, I humbly welcome you but do keep your voice down dusk sister.”

Lavellan flushes and weaves her way through the terrace of the Night until she finds Malomedies.

“Firstborn, Mother sent me her to that you could help me with my dream,” Lavellan says, “I know I should have sought out Firstborn Kahedins instead, but she told me to come to you.”

Malomedies hums and waves his hand towards her to take a seat on a root, “The Pale tree knows many things, are you freshly awoken sister?”

“Yes, Firstborn,” Lavellan sits, “May I speak to you of my Dream? Are you busy, Firstborn? Should I come back at another time?”

“No, I could use a break from my work,” Malomedies says sitting opposite her. “Tell me of your dream and let us try and decipher its mysteries together.”

“In my dream I always come upon this large machine,” Lavellan begins, “It is a most fierce some machine, Firstborn. It towers up over me and it creaks and groans most frightfully. I remember that I was afraid of it, but it was not moving, Firstborn. It was - it looked like it was left there by someone. It’s covered in vines and dirt and moss.”

Firstborn Malomedies nods, humming, brows furrowing concentration, “Go on.”

“When I get close to it, I see it is old and it is worn. I think it was a machine of some great war or battle,” Lavellan continues, “It was damaged and perhaps that is why it was left behind. I get close to it even though I am very frightened, but the closer I get the more I realize it cannot hurt me and it is not dangerous. It only looks to be that way. When I touch it, it is warm - not hot, but warm. When I touch the machine I know that it is a very sad thing, Firstborn.”

Even just talking about it, something in her pangs. Malomedies holds out his palm to her and Lavellan tentatively places her hand in his and feels a little bit better.

“I don’t know what compels me to do so, but I start to clean it,” Lavellan says, “I start to pull off the weeds and other plants that have grown on and around it. But then I must remove the vines so I go to look for a strong stone with which to cut through. And when I return the moss and weeds are back again! So I start over from the beginning and then I cut through the vines. But now I must find something to scrape the moss off and all my work is once again undone! So I start again. Now, while working on this I realize that there is something inside, the machine is hollow. I hear rasping and moaning and the rattling of chains. It sounds so miserable, Firstborn. Imagine that. Being trapped in such a sorry looking machine for that long without the breeze or sunlight or flowers to keep you company.”

And then Lavellan remembers that Malomedies _was_ kept trapped and she freezes.

“Think nothing of it, sapling,” Malomedies squeezes her hand and gives her a small smile, “What is inside this machine in your dream?”

“Well - now knowing something is trapped inside I know I must somehow get the machine open. So I look to find something in the woods and by the time I return - “

“You must start over.”

“Exactly! This goes on and on and on, Firstborn. Because once I pry the metal open enough to get through I must find something to light my way with. And it keeps going and going and going. And then I woke and I told Mother and Mother told me to ask you and - “

“Slow yourself,” Malomedies says, “Calm your mind. Let us work through this.” Malomedies hums, stroking his chin, “If it is a machine perhaps the Dream of Dreams seeks to direct you at the Asura or the Charr. I doubt that the Asura would just leave their precious machines lying about to ruin, but I know nothing of a Charr war machine lost in any woods.”

“What does it mean, Firstborn?” Lavellan says, “Even now that machine in the woods calls to me.”

“This your hunt, sister,” Malomedies squeezes her hand and lets go, “I know not the exact details of it or how to best guide you, but it appears that your hunt is to find this machine and release that which is trapped inside. Do you know anything else? Some other detail that could focus the search more? What was the machine made of? Did it remind you of anything? A golem like the ones by the Asura gate?”

Lavellan frowns, concentrating, “Well - I’m not sure. But. I think - I think that the machine had horns. Or something that looked like horns. And it was made of iron, or some other gray looking metal. And - “

“Firstborn Malomedies?” A voice startles Lavellan out of her concentration. She turns and sees a thin wisp of a Sylvari standing in the archway. His skin is most peculiar. His arms and hands look tough like wood, but the rest of his flesh seems soft and undeveloped, like the insides of aloe vera.

And his hair!

It looks like wheat! He looks younger than she is, and she’s only three days old.

“Cole,” Malomedies says, “Lavellan, this is Cole, he is a brother of the Night and a member of the Pact. I believe Kahendins has told you of the pact?”

“Yes, Firstborn,” Lavellan says, “It is an honor to meet a warrior such as yourself, Cole.”

“I came for you,” Cole whispers, “I know you from my dream.”

“Ah,” Malomedies says, “Interesting. Lavellan, Cole’s dream - but not his hunt - is to find and gather certain people together.”

“What?” Lavellan looks between them. “Which people?”

“Mother sent someone to find me when you told her of your dream,” Cole says, “Part of my dream was to find you and help you in your hunt.”

“Do you know the machine from my dream?” Lavellan asks.

Cole nods. “In my dream there is a woman with a star that is being chased falling down inside of her, and she is looking for blood in a machine.”

“I am looking for _something_ in a machine,” Lavellan says.

“Not something,” Cole holds out his hand to her, “Some _one_. I can take you to him. I will. I can help you. He’s been waiting for you for a long time, he just didn’t know it.”


	16. Chapter 16

“You’ve met her,” Evelyn says softly - as softly as she can. Something about this conversation feels like it must be soft. Not just because they are surrounded by the most elite players of the Game, the gossipers and the grand. The subject matter, too, seems to ask for a gentleness with how it is treated. The subjects of the matter, also. “You met her before. Lavellan.”

“I _loved_ Lavellan,” Bull corrects her, eye on the witch’s distant moving figure.

The only woman - Dalish, mage, _elf_ \- in the entire Orlesian court dressed in full, glittering and glorious armor.

“Loved?” Evelyn asks.

Bull lets out a rough sounding sigh and he leans forward, arms resting on the railing as they watch the dancers below them - the ones on the dance floor, the ones by the food, the ones lingering in groups of multi-colored fabric. There is more than one kind of dance. And they’re all dancing, tonight, to a music they have no choice in.

“There are people, Evelyn,” Bull says in a low voice, a strangely old and steady voice, “That leave you. There are people that you love, and who love you back - for a time. Then one day they’re gone. And you think things like - they weren’t yours to start with, they just went back to wherever they should have been in the first place. You rationalize it, they belong to no one, they’re their own person and so are you. You think things like that, you try and parse it out. And like the adult you are, you move on from it, you put it behind you. It’s history.”

Somehow, Evelyn doesn’t think that’s even the half of it.

Bull’s large hands slowly knot together and squeeze.

“But you’re like a drug addict: A templar ready to rip off their own skin for just one more taste of lyrium, the alcoholic who just needs one more drink, the dazed dreamer who just needs one more pull of opium. You come back to it again and again. Where are they now? Are they safe? Who are they with? What are they doing? Do they still do that thing they always seem to do in certain times? Have their habits changed? Do they think of you? It comes to you when you aren’t ready. You tell yourself not to think about it - you’ll never get the answer anyway, what does it matter, they left you - or maybe you left each other.” Bull stops there, a story that Evelyn doesn’t think he can tell. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know how it goes, either.

Bull - and Lavellan, she thinks - has a way of making stories to cover the rest, and along the way they forget the parts they made real for everyone else and the parts they kept secret just for themselves.

“You have to cut it off, no give, just cut it off,” Bull continues, and Evelyn doesn’t think he’s really talking to her anymore about this. He shakes himself out of it an eye blink later. “So that’s what I did. I loved her. That’s all.”

And because Evelyn never knows when to stop pushing, because that’s what always gets her in trouble, because she never well could keep her nose out of other people’s business when her heart tells her something she has to say -

“I don’t think that’s all,” Bull glances at her and Evelyn holds her ground. There’s time enough for this - for them, for her friend. “I think that’s what you tell yourself, and that’s what _she_ tells _herself_. And you’re both wrong.”

-

  
“Morrigan said not to trust you,” Evelyn says when she finds Lavellan gazing at the sky through the trees, standing apart and away from the rest of the people in the garden. Or perhaps they’re standing away from her. Who’s to tell? “She says that she recognizes the way you feel.”

“Smart woman,” Lavellan muses, “I see how she survived the Blight. And now she fights with you and her former comrade, Leliana, to end this plague of demons. It appears that it isn’t just the wicked who never get to rest.”

“Should I lend credence to her words?” Evelyn says, “You’re here on appointment from Celene, but I can’t help but think this benefits her more than us.”

Lavellan’s gaze turns amused as she focuses her attention on Evelyn, “Very astute of you, Inquisitor. You are correct in part. Celene cannot _order_ or _appoint_ me anywhere. I go where I go. I leave when I leave. She is not _my_ Empress. She is not _my_ leader.”

“Then who is?”

“A question for the ages,” Lavellan’s smile flashes like coin in the sunlight: a dangerous trick. “I make Celene’s court uncomfortable, but they cannot punish me or otherwise hurt me. So whatever council I could provide to Celene could no longer outweigh the wagging tongues of her court of back-stabbing pissants. She really was just waiting for an excuse to ask me to leave. This one just happens to save face for her.”

“But you still left.”

“I’m willful, not cruel,” Lavellan replies, “She provided me a place to stay and for at time some amusement. I am grateful for that. So I left. And now I am here, though what I have to offer I am not quite sure. You have plenty of scholars and mages. Morrigan being one of them.”

“You’re both witches of the wilds, and yet she doesn’t trust you, why is that?” Evelyn asks.

“There’s plenty of us if you know where to look,” Lavellan answers, “But you’ll never see us together. Those of us who you call _witches of the_ wilds have a natural and understandable aversion towards each other. My sire is not her dam, we are different sort of beasts your Morrigan and I. But whether you trust me or not is entirely up to you. I could leave here, too, out of courtesy. I do have it when it pleases me, and it pleases me to see the cradle of the sky so loved, so I would leave if asked.”

“I’m not asking that, _yet_ ,” Evelyn says, “I’m asking if I should trust you.”

“That is not a question I can answer,” Lavellan says, “And it’s one I don’t think you need an answer to, is it, Inquisitor? You have a task for me already. I can see it in you.”

-

“I’m ready to go,” Lavellan says and Bull glances over to her. It’s the same pack she used when they traveled together. It’s the same armor, the same cloak, the same staff. All of it the same.

“You’ve lived in the palace for years and that’s all you’re bringing?” He asks.

Right under his damn nose. But for how long?

“Is there something else I need?”

(Her words, years old echo back - _Everything I need I can carry. Anything I cannot I do not need._ )

He shakes his head and gestures for her to follow.

“You haven’t changed,” He says because he wants to. Not because he has to.

“You continue to resist changing,” Lavellan says in response. An old argument that never got fully aired out.

It’s been less than two minutes and they’re already falling back into this. Bull doesn’t know if he hates it or wants to savor it for the next time.

They navigate their ways through the twists and turns of Halamshiral - and the irony of finding her here keeps hitting him over and over and over again.

Blindsided every time.

( _I always do give you the best surprises, don’t I?)_

And like the knife that follows a kiss, she speaks softly, “I had to fight to not find you in my dreams.”

“I fought to wake up from the you in mine,” Bull replies, and the name almost slips out - a habit that he’s just realized he hasn’t actually kicked. _Kadan_.

“I won’t apologize for leaving,” Lavellan says, stopping. He knows she stops not because he hears it - she’s always been too good for that - but because he just _knows_. Like he knows that she’s not looking at his head but at his back, right where the necklace would hang on his chest if he were still wearing it. He isn’t.

(After the first few months, the Chargers began to worry more obviously. It felt like ripping open a wound to take it off. But he did. He keeps it safe, wrapped in its leather cord in a pocket sewn into the leather pouch on his belt. When he walks he can feel its weight against his side as if it were still around his neck.)

“I’m not asking you to,” Bull says, not turning to look at her.

“I can’t apologize for hurting you,” She continues, “It isn’t fair to you.”

No, Bull privately agrees, it isn’t.

“But I wanted to tell you - “ She pauses, hesitates. He closes his eye and begs himself not to turn.

He turns.

“I’m not sorry for the time we spent together,” She says, eyes bright like they were _before_. Then. During. “I will never be sorry for the days and moonrises and heartbeats we shared. Not once have I been sorry for any of it. I want you to know that. More than anything.”

And the word that was his word, that became their word, and then his again, slides out from her teeth.

“ _Kadan_.”


	17. Chapter 17

“There is a price,” Solas says, and Lavellan watches him carefully. He doesn’t say it like a threat. He says it like he’s resigned.

“I know,” She is no guppy. Everything has a price. That is the law of the tide.

He watches her back and the nods, “You think you know. Good enough. You want to go to the surface and walk among them, to learn of them.”

“I want to know how they could hurt each other,” Lavellan says, “I want to know why they are so cruel.”

She had listened to the fight on the ship before it crashed. She listened and she didn’t know the words, not exactly, but she could guess the intent. She could guess before the walker began to jump or get thrown overboard.

“To know darkness you must take it into yourself,” Solas says, “If you pursue this, you will no longer be of the blue. You will become black. You will surrender your scales. Do you understand? You will become as the deep dwellers are.”

Lavellan has seen the deep dwellers. She can tell that Solas wants her to be repulsed, he wants her to be afraid and to doubt her choice.

Those who swim the black waters are not bad. She’s seen them from afar. Mostly they’re quiet. Somber. A little sad, even. Something about the way they silently glide through the ocean, the way the light slides away from their leathery skin and their deep eyes is just that. Sad. There are, of course, those who are not that. The ones who are loud and wild - unsteady in the water, not quite right. the ones that swim like they’re being dragged behind something else.

But they, overall, are not bad.

“I give them freely,” Lavellan says. And then, because she can’t resist, “What was your price, for leaving the blue water?”

“My price?”

Lavellan points, “You still have your scales. But you are of the black water. They say that the Blue loved you once. But you betrayed her and so she cast you out.”

Solas’ lips curve up, “If that was true, shouldn’t you be more wary of me, little fish?”

“ _Is_ it true?” Lavellan asks.

“False in that she loved me, once. False in that I betrayed her. False in that she cast me out.”

Lavellan knows this is a test. They have said that the Black Water mage was one for games and riddles, for making the younger fish crumple with shame and embarrassment.

Lavellan is no young fish.

“Does the Blue water love you still?”

Solas’ lips curve further upwards, and the thick coils of his body shift over the worn smooth stone of his den. “Yes.”

“Whatever you did, she was aware. It is not betrayal if it is not a surprise.”

“Yes.” The mage of the Black waters looks increasingly pleased by Lavellan’s answers.

“You left to become Black water willingly.”

“ _Yes_.”

Lavellan pulls her shell knife - briefly, Solas looks annoyed, resigned, disappointed and she can feel the water begin to chill with magic, she can see his great mass of scales begin to move in anticipation of the strike - and cuts upwards at her own scales. Blood immediately begins to cloud at the water.

“ _I_ leave the Blue water willingly,” Lavellan holds the first handful of bloody scales out to him. “Get me onto land and I will manage the rest.”

Solas stares at her, incredulous, then bursts out into laughter, waving his hand - the pain at her side vanishes almost immediately.

“Brave little fish, it almost offsets how foolish you are. Who hurt you so badly that you would want to go to the surface to find them again?”

“It wasn’t me they hurt,” Lavellan replies. There’s a little Black water in every fish, Lavellan’ has found. And there’s Blue water in those from the surface, too.

(He would row the little boat away from the big one, and he would show her pictures. He taught her words. In his language she is a mermaid. He sails for Ferelden. Cold waters, she realized when he pointed the way. He sails for the violent and cold waters.

Sometimes during the day she would see him close to the railing. She wondered if he ever looked for her.

He was not the first of the bodies that went over the side of the ship that night.  He is not the first body she has ever seen going over the side of a ship, to eventually sink into the Black water.

But he was the first one she pulled from it. He was the first one she left to shallow water for. He was the first one to give her a name.)

“Black Water magi, what was your price for choosing to leave, if not your scales?” Lavellan asks as Solas begins to summon the powers of the Black water.

“There are other things to lose aside from scales,” He says, “There are other things to hurt. This you know.”

-

“I’m retired,” Bull says, ignoring the look Cassandra is giving him. Mostly because he doesn’t want to see her disappointment. Also because he doesn’t want to see her sympathy.

He doesn’t want to hear _it’s been three years, Bull_. He doesn’t want to hear anything about how he should be over his grief.

“Once you get in a Jaeger,” Cassandra says, “You never retire.”

“Well, when you’re out of people who are drift compatible and your Jaeger is scrapped you do,” Bull says.

“There’s one person who would still be able to drift with you.”

“Yeah, well, she’s retired too,” Bull says, grief threatening to rise and pull him down.

“You don’t honestly think that the Wall is going to do anything, do you?” Cassandra says, that snap back to her voice that Bull is grateful for. It takes them away from the past.

“It’s something,” Bull says, “It’s _something_ to give people hope.” It’s a pretty lie, but it’s also something loud and big and capable of blocking out the shoreline and the horizon. Sometimes that’s what Bull needs. Something bigger and louder than he is to get between him and that big open blue.

“ _Jaegers_ give people hope,” Cassandra retorts, “The resistance gives people hope, the pilots give people hope. _This_ gives them a false sense of security. Listen to me, Bull. You know I’m right. Since when were you the type to hide from the truth?”

She’s disappointed in him, he knows.

He’s disappointed in himself, too.

“I can’t pilot a Jaeger, I have one eye and half a hand,” Bull snaps, “And no partner to go in with. I’m not letting anyone new into my head and I don’t want to be in anyone else’s.”

“It doesn’t have to be someone new, that’s what I’m _telling you_ ,” Cassandra bursts out.

“Come into mine.”

 _Her voice_. Bull slowly straightens up, and turns. Towards the blue. Towards the unfinished parts of the wall. Towards the sky and the ocean that took her away from him.

Lavellan stands there just as damn _everything_ as she always has been, out of place in her military blues and at home with the backdrop of the sea.

“Come into my head,” She says, the words pulled out of her mouth by memory and the sea. “You have one eye and three fingers. I have two eyes and no arm.”

“You’re awake,” He says, flatly. An obvious observation.

“Half a year,” She says, “Most of it spent trying to find you.”

Softly, now, “You retired?”

“I left,” _I couldn’t face it without you_.

“Come back,” _now you don’t have to_.

“We still don’t have a Jaeger,” Bull says. He doesn’t want to. He will, though. He will. He’s already walking towards her. She’s already walking towards him. Her cheek still fits in his hand and even with one arm, when it goes around his waist it feels exactly right.

“Six months,” She says, “Dagna’s been busy. Drake Alpha is waiting for us.”

“Three years.”

“Let’s not keep her waiting.”


	18. Chapter 18

“Your place at six, right?” Bull stops by Cullen’s desk to ask, “You need drinks?”

“Varric is coming,” Cullen says.

“So,” Bull drags the word out, “Need drinks?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Cullen says, “Yes, I need drinks.”

“You’re going to Thanksgiving?” Sutherland asks.

“Yeah, Boss and Cole go to prison on Thanksgiving,” Bull says and then when Sutherland looks alarmed he waves his hand. “They visit their old foster father.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Sutherland says.

“Yeah, they tell him how thankful they are that he’s behind bars and that he’s finally under lock and key and how grateful they are that he’s away for a really long time,” Bull laughs. “They tell him how much they like that they finally know where he is so he can’t run off on them again. I used to go but a couple of years back we decided it’s probably best if I didn’t because Lavellan and I get a bit too mean about it, apparently.”

Sutherland stares at Cullen as if Cullen can verify this.

Cullen, personally, hasn’t seen Solas since the trial and he has no interest in ever seeing Solas again. He shrugs.

It does sound like something Lavellan would do.

“Need a ride to Cullen’s place, Sutherland?” Bull asks, “You ever been before? It’s an hour out of city limits and looks like the set for some sort of country album or horror film. Depends on what time of year it is.”

“ _You live on a farm_?” Sutherland turns to gape at Cullen, “I thought that was just a rumor.”

“It’s not a _farm_ ,” Cullen replies. “And it doesn’t look like the set of a horror film.”

“It does,” Captain Trevelyan says, “Trust me, _it really does_.”

“Are you going to be there, too, Captain?” Sutherland asks.

“Considering that I’m going to be setting up for it?” Trevelyan raises an eyebrow, “Definitely. Don’t have much of a choice.”

“Since it blew your mind that I’m married to the police commissioner,” Bull says as Trevelyan walks away, “It’s probably going to wipe the rest of it clean when I tell you that the Captain and Vice Captain are a couple.”

“Isn’t that against some kind of rule?”

“Oh, Sutherland,” Sera says from a few desks over, feet propped up on Blackwall’s desk. “You dumb little newbie. Didn’t you know the higher up you go the more people we all know? Our unit is the most hooked up unit in the entire _country_.”

“And yet we have so many problems,” Blackwall says, lifting Sera’s feet to grab a stack of forms. “And our budget is shit.”

-

“Bull,” Captain Trevelyan yells from her office, “Why is the Commissioner texting me to make sure you aren’t breaking your fast?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bull groans.

“He’s got blood work,” Krem yells back, reaching over and prying Bull’s hands off of a sandwich. “He’s been putting it off for two months.”

“I’m fucking _hungry_ ,” Bull says, “Do you know how many calories it takes to maintain this figure?”

“A lot?” Sera asks, “She’s texting me to remind you that she’s coming over to pick you up and that afterwards - ew, gross. Emojis.”

“Which ones?”

“Eggplant, leaf, tongue, clamshell?” Sera makes a face, “I don't need to know this.”

“She’s bribing me with food to get me to stop eating,” Bull turns to look at Cullen, “We have some of my old blood bags right? I could use that?”

Cullen slowly turns his chair the other way and pretends to answer emails.

“Are you sure she’s bribing you with food?”

“Next emojis will be a fork, pizza slice, thumbs up, and pair of eyes,” Bull says, half heartedly trying to grab his sandwich back from Krem who takes a large bite of it while maintaining eye contact. “You little shit. I should have never put a good word in for you when we joined the task force. Chew with your mouth closed you impolite fuck.”

“There’s this Italian buffet that I told her that she should try,” Captain Trevelyan says, crossing her arms as she stands in the doorway of her office. “My bad. You’ve been putting off your blood work?”

“Do you know how long it takes for them to fucking get to me? They open at six thirty and you’ve gotta be waiting in line for like half an hour before then,” Bull says. “I can’t go that long without calories, Captain.”

“Make an _appointment_ ,” Trevelyan says.

“That’s what Lavellan said, too,” Bull says, “But that’d take even longer. Fuck it. I’m healthy. Why do I even need blood work?”

“Alright, Captain’s orders - go do your damn blood work. I’m texting her to pick you up now,” Trevelyan says. “No one’s getting any work done if they have to watch you to make sure you aren’t eating. I don’t know how she puts up with you, you giant whining baby.”

“I’m her favorite Detective,” Bull says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “What the hell did you tell her? She’s pissed.”

“I’m still amazed you guys can understand her when she texts,” Cullen says, breaking his silence. “She never texts me in anything other than emojis. It’s like charades.”

“You’re not bad at charades,” Krem says, “You’re a detective. It’s kind of like - our job.”

“Cullen’s phone doesn’t get emojis,” Trevelyan rolls her eyes. “Just boxes with question marks.”

“Ah, that would make it harder.”

-

“Commissioner,” Trevelyan says, “To what do I owe this visit?”

“What?” Lavellan turns around, “Oh right. That’s me.”

“Yes, Lavellan, _you’re_ the police commissioner.”

“I keep thinking that someone’s made a mistake with that one,” Lavellan muses, “Are you sure you don’t want to trade, Evelyn?”

“Frankly, Lavellan, I would rather go into PR. Considering the other units? I still don’t know how Herah doesn’t go insane with hers. Last I heard her squad accidentally triggered a demolition early,” Trevelyan replies.

Lavellan frowns.

“Was there an official reason for this visit?” Trevelyan prompts. Lavellan fiddles with the buttons on her blazer.

“I don’t think so,” She stares at the ceiling. “Evelyn why are there so many patches on your ceiling?”

“The guys were trying to settle a bet,” Evelyn replies. “Honestly? I don’t know. I think Sera won? They hid something in my office and were up against each other to try and steal it.”

“Oh, right, steal,” Lavellan claps her hands together, “I remember what I’m here for.”

“Official?”

“Personal. Can I borrow Cullen after his shift? I’m going to adopt a puppy and I feel like Cullen would know so much about dogs and where to best get them and things. It’s a surprise for Cole’s birthday.”

“Oh, you guys finally picked a date?”

“Well. _No,_ we haven’t found a day that feels right yet but we will eventually.”


	19. Chapter 19

"What happened to you?” Bull asks.

This strange Lavellan - the same face, the same voice, the same tilt of the mouth and glitter in the eyes, but _strange_ and _foreign_ and _distant_ from the Lavellan Bull is uncomfortably coming to call _his_ in order to keep them separate - glances down at the empty space where her arm and the Anchor should be.

“Death failed to happen to me,” She answers in the same lyrics and puzzles pattern he understands, “And she ever since she punishes me with her absence.”

“Death is a woman?”

“Who else, but a woman, could make suffering so elegant? Tell me, has a man ever caused heartbreak so wondrously?” Lavellan asks. Something in her face breaks as she looks at him, “I miss you so much.”

“What?” Bull stares at her.

More and more of that strange face breaks apart, and it tears at him because it’s so close to the woman he knows.

“I miss you. When you live long enough - as I have - you see the same eyes in different faces, you catch glimpses of ghosts in other skins, but it isn’t ever really the same. None of them are ever the ones you lost. I miss you. I miss the man you become - became. I miss the man I got to be with for the best years of my life and trust me when I say that they are the best because I have lived for _so long_ and not a day has gone by where I didn’t want you there with me and not a moment has passed me where I didn’t think that your added presence could make it even _better_.” The strange Lavellan takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “And everything in me wants to stay here, with you, before it all goes wrong - when I can just be with you and keep you. But I can’t.”

“What stops you?” Bull asks.

“I’m not _yours,”_ Lavellan’s voice cracks like bone and Bull’s chest hollows out a little. Just a little for her. She’s right.

“No,” Bull agrees. “You aren’t.”

The strange Lavellan swipes her remaining hand over her eyes. He reaches out for her, and then thinks better of it.

The Iron Bull lowers his hand to his side.

The strange Lavellan laughs. “Good call. If I had another taste, I would never be able to go back.”

“When will _mine_ come back?” Bull asks instead.

“I don’t know,” Lavellan replies, “Soon, probably. When she does - when she does. Will you do one thing for me? I’m not your Lavellan, not yet, but will you do it for me anyway?”

“Name it, first,” Bull says.

She looks up at him with watery and red eyes. “Tell her the word that catches in your throat. The one that the thing you’ve been trying so hard to keep a hold of carves into the stone of your chest. Tell her. The time you two have together is so short, so precious. Don’t waste it by trying to call it by another name.”

-

“I,” The woman with the dark eyes and the cold face and the sharp, rasping voice like bodies on the shore as they’re dragged over gravel and salt, “Am _you_. An _older_ you. A _smarter_ you. A _better_ you. A stronger you. A stranger you. A you from a stronger world.”

“And what,” Lavellan asks, the hair on the back of her neck standing up, “Do you want?”

Lavellan can only see glimpses of herself in this other woman’s face.

And this woman - this woman who claims to be her. This woman who claims to be her, in that dark leather and golden chainmail, with the noticeable absence of the Anchor and teeth that seem to threaten past thin lips.

This woman lets out a low, husky, rasping laugh.

“I want nothing. I am here for one thing and one thing only. To do my _job,”_ The space where the arm and Anchor should be suddenly lights up, an arm forming out of the Fade, the familiar green illuminating the hallway and sending people gasping and drawing their weapons in fear.

Lavellan stands, Anchor crackling to life.

“Corypheus took my Anchor,” The other Lavellan says, “And sought to take my life. More the fool he was.”

“Was?” Leliana’s voice is sharp.

“Redcliffe,” Dorian whispers.

The other Lavellan’s eyes flick to Dorian and her chin tilts down.

“He took my arm, thought to take the Anchor. But he was a fool and couldn’t finish the job. Arrogant of him. When I rose again and saw what he had done - _what he had taken from me_ \- .” She pauses here and her teeth push her lips apart in a slow, heart-pounding display. “He thought to rise to godhood? All the more satisfying as I tore him down to reclaim what is _mine_.”

She jerks her head, “ _Now_.”

A gasp from Lavellan’s left and she turns her head - not fast enough, it was already too late.

“Solas!” The name yanks itself out of her lungs before her mind registers the scene.

Solas’ eyes are wide, and a large gray hand is on his shoulder, holding him up and standing as a large, simple dagger protrudes from his chest.

A silver mask, in the shape of the skull of an ox, gleams from behind him.

“What have you _done?”_ Cullen demands, advancing on the false Lavellan.

“I have done you a _favor_ ,” She spits out. “I have found, in my long and trying reign as Inquisitor - “

“ _Reign_?” Sera spits out.

“ - two things.” Lavellan turns towards Solas, something feral and vicious sparking in her eyes. “I have a talent for killing gods. And two. _I have a profound distaste for them entirely_.”

The green arm and hand form a fist as she raises it in Solas’ direction, “I killed _my_ Solas too quickly - too much rage in the heat of the moment. Don’t worry - I’ve worked most of it out. Nothing left but a nice, cold, barren, even line of _satisfaction_. I didn’t get nearly enough information out of him. I won’t make that mistake this time.”

“You came here -  you crossed _time_ and _space_ and _worlds_ to be here - to kill Solas?” Lavellan asks, pushing her own Anchor out to try and stop what’s happening. “ _Why? He saved us_. He kept the Anchor from killing us. _He brought us to Skyhold_.”

“No,” The other Lavellan bats her spells away as if they were paper. The other Lavellan sounds annoyed. “I didn’t come here to kill Solas. I came here to get as much information as possible out of him before making him regret ever crawling out of the grave he came out of.” She hisses something in - in _elven_. Too fast, too fluid, too impossibly _powerful_ for her to understand.

Solas’ eyes widen on his pale face, denial and fear flashing across his face in such unfiltered purity it makes Lavellan stagger.

“Put the sword down, Cullen,” The man holding Solas up as he gasps and sputters blood says. The voice is -

Familiar.

Lavellan’s mind scrambles to a stop. And so does, it feels, the rest of the world.

“Bull?” The name slides out from her like the world.

The metal mask turns and nods at her, voice warm, “Boss.”

“No,” The same voice says from her left and she turns to see _her Bull_. Kind face and flesh and bone and skin. “ _No_.”

“Not quite,” The other Lavellan says, moving closer to Solas, the spectral hand reaching out to take his face and force their eyes to meet. “I said I was sick of gods. So I made my own. Meet the new Death.”

More of that same Fade and demons green gathers and condenses as Lavellan draws her flesh hand over her own face, calling down her own mask.

“And meet the new _Wolf_.”


	20. Chapter 20

“It would appear that your masters call us,” Lavellan says and Bull turns to her as she approaches out of the shadows of Skyhold, close to the walls and the stone.

“I just received my notice this morning.” He had been debating on how to tell her, if he should at all.

Lavellan’s teeth hint at making an appearance from behind her lips before her expression flattens out, “And I just received confirmation from _you_. It was a guess, the Iron Bull. I could see something in your face. How will you answer?”

“With whatever answer the Inquisition gives,” Bull replies.

“That was not the question, Ben-Hassrath,” Lavellan comes to stand next to him, turning her gaze outwards and away; towards Skyhold as the beast that is the Inquisition slowly wakes itself to face a new day. “I will ask once more: how will you answer?”

Bull breathes.

It always catches him off guard. Lavellan is not Qun, but for many years she pretended to be: she pretended to let them think that they had won. And finally, when their guard was lowered, she burst out as untamed and unyielding as every Dalish chant and prayer claims their blood and bones to be.

She is not Qun, but she knows it. She knows how they are trained, she knows how they speak, she knows the way the Tamassarans _know you_ and _command you_. Lavellan knows enough, has kept enough, to make herself the kind of authority Bull respects out of inbred instinct.

The bas around them do not know it, but the woman leading them is a Tamassaran. The woman leading them patterns her speech and her gaze and her thoughts in the way the shapers of the mind and body do.

“However you dictate I answer, I follow your lead,” Bull says.

It feels like something inside of him - something like the dark eyes and silent footfalls that Lavellan hid for so many years - bursts out of him, cracking through him like water through stone.

Lavellan’s teeth part the curtain of her lips.

“Good,” Lavellan says. “Summon the Qun.”

-

“I would have died for this, when I was younger,” Lavellan admits as they stand at the edge of the Arbor Wilds. “To come here, to do what we are about to do - enter the Temple of Mythal in search of one of her artifacts. I would have done anything for it.”

“And now?” Bull asks, raising his hand to hold a broad leaf out of their way as they find their own path through the forest that seems to be actively fighting them back.

“No,” Lavellan says, “It interests me, but it no longer holds me. After the Qun, I stopped believing in gods.”

Bull does not ask _why_. Lavellan’s seemed to hold onto everything else, after all.

“What do you believe in?” Bull asks. Certainly not the Qun.

“These hands,” Lavellan replies, “These feet. These eyes. And you.”

“Me?”

Lavellan nods, head turning as she slowly scans the area. They can hear the sound of their caravan to their left. They aren’t too far from the rest. Just far enough for some privacy. Just far enough to let the others speak their minds without fear of hurting her. That said, Bull is certain that whatever they have to say at this point isn’t doubt in her ability - more like fear for the future, and with it, the implication of their failure here.

“You obeyed,” Lavellan says, “Before that, you submitted. And before that, you trusted. I reward that kind of loyalty. I respect it. You’ve earned my belief.”

Lavellan turns and he reads it in her eyes.

 _You’ve earned me_.

“Kadan,” Bull says and Lavellan’s eyes dance in the light of the forest. Another wild thing that fights back. She stops and he moves towards her, ducking his head closer to her even as Lavellan straightens up and raises her face up towards him. “Where do you need me?”

“With me,” Lavellan closes her eyes, “Just be where I need you, before I need it. You can do that. I know you can. Keep doing what you have been doing for these past months. I will not fail you. I swear it.”

“On what?”

“Both our lives.”

-

“Why do you wear the pattern of the Qun if you wanted to leave it?” Bull asks, holding still as Lavellan draws the paintbrush over his skin.

“It is what is right for me,” Lavellan answers, “I am not Qun. I am not Dalish. I am nothing. I am both. So I put them together. The tattoo on your left is not Qun, either.”

“No, but that’s different,” Bull says, slowly turning his forearm so Lavellan can get at inner side. Each line drawn is crisp, precise, and neat. This is what she was meant to do, once. If she had stayed a First and became a Keeper.

“There are parts of the Qun I did not reject,” Lavellan says, “So I took them with me when I left. Just like how there are parts of the Qun you will hold onto, long after this, long after the wound of leaving has closed.”

“You liked them enough to ink it into your skin?”

“I did not say I _liked_ it,” Lavellan replies, “I said _I did not reject_ it. They were part of me, already. They could not be undone or taken back. Just as there are parts of me that are Dalish and the Qun could not starve out of me, there are also parts of me that the Qun has ground in so deep that nothing else can pull it back out again. I accept this. Let the world know. Let the world see. I am not ashamed.”

“I am beginning to see why they had such a hard time with you.”

Lavellan laughs. When she laughs it’s undeniable that her source was Dalish.

“Just now?”

“I was trying to be polite about it,” Bull says. “Nah, saw it the second I laid eyes on you. Felt it.”

Lavellan’s fingers are feather light as they trail over the patches of skin not marked by the poison armor, and her face is entirely wild.

“You enjoy the feeling. You like being on unsteady ground with me. It makes it a surprise.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Bull says, taking her by the neck with his free hand, running his thumb down the line drawn down the center of her throat. His thumb rests at the dip of her collarbone, feeling the soft flutter of skin there. “Gotta admit, though. I’m getting a little old for constant vigilance.”

“Have no fear, Kadan,” Lavellan laughs, “This ground will always be there to catch you whole.”


	21. Chapter 21

"I was _invited_ to this Conclave by your Divine,” The woman snaps, defiant even in the face of Cassandra’s sword. She meets Cassandra’s gaze evenly. Cassandra would be impressed if every bone in her body weren’t screaming of loss and grief. “You know this, _Nightingale_. You sent me the invitation _yourself_.”

“It’s true,” Leliana says, “Cassandra - putting aside all the evidence we have seen - “

“Evidence?” Lady Lavellan scoffs, “My survival and my understandably unclear memory due to a giant magical blast that rendered me unconscious? Hardly evidence.”

“ _The mark on your hand_ ,” Cassandra says, “The mark on your hand that matches the scar in the sky - “

“You are _on my land_ ,” Lavellan’s voice rings of the authority of centuries of victories and successes. “You are on _my land_. I - and through my will and graciousness alone - am the reason you are all here. I am the one who commanded the Keepers and Sentinels and Knights to part the walls for your renegades and marauders and escapees to gather here, on this site that _we of the Dales_ have allowed you shemlen to keep as yours. I am the one who’s will enforces the peace - I am the one who has commanded the Sentinels and Knights of _my_ people to _keep yours_ from tearing each other to pieces. _And why?_ ”

Cassandra’s throat closes with a burning heat of resistance and shame and hurt.

“Because we asked,” Cassandra grinds out.

“Because the Divine asked,” Leliana admits.

“You asked _me_ ,” Lavellan says, “You asked _me. You are the ones who came to my door, who came to my bower, who came as supplicants_. And what was my answer?”

“You refused,” Leliana says. “The Divine spent months trying to convince you to say yes. And weeks after that negotiating with you.”

This, Cassandra did not know.

“Yes,” Lavellan says, “And why do you think that is?”

“I know not, Lady Lavellan,” Leliana says.

Lavellan scoffs, “Lady? I am not one of _your_ thin blooded nobles, who grasps at power through the weakest and whitest drops of blood. I am _Vhen’Vhenan_. I am the heart of the people. You address me as such or you do not speak to me at all. And the reason _why_ I refused so many times, the reason _why_ I continued to refuse and resist was because I _knew_. I _knew_ that whatever the results of this _Conclave_ were to be, the unsatisfied party would blame it on _my people’s_ supposed interference.”

Lavellan sneers.

“If the agreement here happened to favor the Templars? Ah, yes, the elves of the Dales have always been so disapproving of the Circles and the hierarchy within them. If what happened here favored the Mages? Our Knights have been clashing with the Chantry and Templars for lifetimes.”

“And _this_?” Cassandra asks.

Lavellan’s eyes seem to simmer with bitter satisfaction, “How best to wipe out all your enemies with one stone?”

Cassandra’s hand shakes on the handle of her sword.

“I did not do this. My people are innocent,” Lavellan stands, the chains around her breaking apart easily under the force of her magic. “This mark? I want it gone. I know not what it is, but I can feel what it is doing to me. I do not die here, Right and Left Hands. Either you move and let me see what is being pushed onto my shoulders or I will move this entire damn mountain to get to the root of this accusation.”

-

“Lavellan of the Dales, most blessed,” The Iron Bull says.

Lavellan’s mouth curves upwards, a vine ready to unfurl - thorns poised at the ready.

“Travelling with one of my own has taught you courtesy,” Lavellan looks past him towards Dalish, further down the coast with the rest of the Chargers. “I am surprised that your Qun extended an invitation to work with me. To work with the Inquisition.”

“The Qun finds itself in an uncomfortable position,” Bull responds, “They hate you, but they’d rather you than whatever the hell caused the explosion at the Conclave.”

“And they believe it is not me?”

“You are an honorable enemy,” Bull says, “A strange one, but honorable. You aren’t the same as Tevinter. For this? The Qun will consider working with you. You aren’t unreasonable. The Triumvirate is even willing to grant you title as _basalit-an_.”

Lavellan laughs, “Your Qun respects my people enough to only send the courtesy spies and the most easily predicted of saboteurs. The last attempt at an overthrow was entertaining to deal with. You keep my teeth sharp. Tell them that, the Iron Bull.”

“The Qun likes having you in power,” Bull says, “I’ll relay the message.”

“And as for working with the Qun,” Lavellan continues, “Are you meant to be the stone for my claws?”

“My purpose in this Inquisition will be whatever you need,” Bull answers, “For as long as the threat of the Breach hangs in our shared sky the Qun’s resources are at your disposal. How you choose to use them is up to you.”

“The Inquisition,” Lavellan corrects. “The Inquisition’s disposal. The Inquisition’s choice.”

Bull laughs, a laugh that fills him belly to throat. Lavellan’s eyes glitter like salt on stone.

“I will write back to the Qun,” He says, “We look forward to this partnership.”

Her hand is strong and hot in his as they shake.

“As do I,” Lavellan’s teeth flash like pearls in water, “Welcome to the Inquisition, the Iron Bull.”

-

“I am the Heart of the People of the Dales, Keeper of the Emerald Knights,” Lavellan says, “I do not _wait_ on the Empress of a dwindling empire to invite me to her shallow tarnished and thinly gilded halls. We move on Adamant, if the Empress wishes my presence she can _request_ it like the rest of her fluttering and easily ruffled flock of sycophants attempt to do.”

“Do not forget what you saw at Redcliffe, Inquisitor,” Josephine warns her, “I understand that your nation’s relationship with Orlais is fraught, but if Orlais falls will be trapped between them _and_ Ferelden.”

“And you know as well as I that it is _my_ nation who’s crops sustain both those nation’s armies. Half of Orlais is blighted ground and the other half they squander on making pretend country manors and useless gardens of inedible and inadequate foliage,” Lavellan says. “I understand the visions shown to me at Redcliffe, but my people have survived fall and ruin many times. We will get into the ball if it is meant to be. Commander Cullen, brief me on Adamant. How go our plans? Any new leads?”

“Empress Celene is also the only one who holds the Empire stable,” Leliana cuts in before Cullen can speak, “Is it not worth it to keep her alive just for the fact that she has not furthered the wars between your nations?”

“If there are any _wars_ , Leliana,” Lavellan says, “It is on her side and not mine. You will notice that not once have my people, in the years since the Promise of the Dales, strayed from the borders we were given. Not once have tried to reclaim more - our temples, our sites of prayer, our ancient cities and groves. We have kept to what is ours. Every single skirmish and incursion begins and ends with the Orlesians. And not once have they succeeded. Why should I be grateful to this Celene? Are you grateful when a fully grown man doesn’t shit himself and knows how to go to the lavatory all by himself? Are you grateful when a ox pulls a cart? Or when a messenger bird delivers a message? No. I will not be _grateful_ to this Empress for making a meager attempt to hold to her promise.”

Lavellan deftly reaches for the stack of reports related to the work on forging a way towards Adamant closer to herself.

“When this Empress is willing to talk of negotiation, of equality between races recognized _outside_ of the borders of the Dales, and the end of slavery and such humiliation as being called _knife ear_ and _rabbit_ , and the _burning of thousands of elves_ within her own capital city at _her command_ then I will give her my ear. I will save her life from the blade out of necessity. For now - _march_.”

-

“The Qun cannot have you,” Lavellan’s voice is hot and sharp, sharper still her eyes. A different sharpness than what Bull is used to. “ _They will not have you_.”

In truth, they haven’t _had_ him in a long time.

Longer than this, longer than Lavellan and the Inquisition. Bull thinks he’s always known that, ever since the moment he decided to turn himself in for re-education.

The fact that he had to do that was what sealed it for him.

Lavellan is just - she’s just the place he’s leaving the Qun _for_. Not the cause or reason, not a catalyst. She’s just -

The place he wants to be instead.

“Sound the retreat.”

Bull’s hand curls around the horn -

“You can’t,” Gatt cuts in, and Bull looks at him - and it feels like his entire body is in a daze. His mind is blurry, his bones - except for the ones that work to lifting the horn and holding it in the air - feel heavy. “All this - this progress. Everything you’ve worked for. _You are no traitor_.”

Ah, Bull thinks, but that all depends on who your loyalty is with.

Part of him almost pities Gatt.

“I defended you, Hissrad,” Gatt says even as Bull brings the horn to his lips and takes in a healthy heart-full of lightning and salt touched air.

The sound of the horn thunders through his skull and Lavellan’s mouth splits into a victorious smile.

Lavellan brings all sorts of new meaning to the word _saarebas_.

“You shouldn’t be surprised when a man you call _liar_ begins to lie to you,” Lavellan says, her hand hot on the side of Bull’s waist as she curls her arm around him, fitting against him like wind and waves. “Report to your masters. If they wish we can still work together, but this threat is handled with or without them. I am keeping the Iron Bull. I’ll return all of the spies you thought to try and let slip into my country while I have been away from my throne. But this one? This spy, I keep.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please listen to LifeAfter (podcast) that stuff will mess u up my dudes its gr8

Grief, despite what movies and books and TV made it seem like, was not beautiful. It makes _no one_ beautiful. Grief makes you ugly. Grief twists you into something foreign.

On Lavellan, grief strung her out like laundry - pale and bleached and gray; an amorphous mass without pattern or real shape, curled and twisted in on itself as you wrung it out to dry. And her grief would pass. It may take a few minutes, a few days, maybe even weeks, but her grief did pass. He would see her colors and patterns and shape again. Slowly.

But Lavellan’s grief had always been old. Older than him knowing her, than most of their friends knowing her. Lavellan’s grief was over a decade old and still raw in her.

Bull knows grief. His own sort. He’s lost friends, family - people from his old unit and his old teams. He’s lost lovers.

Lavellan had lost her twin. They weren’t identical in body, but in everything else they matched. They breathed together, slept together, ate together, walked together, went to school together - in everything they did they were together.

Until they weren’t.

Lavellan has been grieving ever since. And her grief sucked her dry. It would eat away at her and the life she continues to lead without her twin until she would crumble under it and turn into that wrung out cloth.

Bull knows grief. He didn’t ask her not to be sad, he didn’t ask her to move on, he didn’t ask her any of that. He would do whatever she needed him to do - watch their childhood videos, look at pictures of the two of them from school or from wherever, listen to her stories of him.

But even Bull’s patience could wear thin, and sometimes he had nothing to say, no strength in him to bear up the house under the weight of her sorrow.

And now Bull does the same thing - it’s been almost a year since Lavellan — .

Since Lavellan.

Bull knows grief. But this is new to him. This one hollows him out like nothing else. This one infects him. Like maggots or termites, eating away at his foundations until he’s weak and unsteady. It’s pathetic and he knows it. Everyone knows it.

“You aren’t the only one who loves her,” Dorian had reminded him, voice hot and blistering. _Loves_. Bull’s mind had latched onto it. _Loves_.

There is more than one kind of love, Bull knows it.

Dorian is doing the brave thing, Bull knows. The strong thing, the thing everyone expects you to do after you lose the person you still love.

You keep going. Bull is failing spectacularly at that and even he’s amazed by how poorly he’s doing at coping.

He was trained to lose people, he’s lost people before. He knows all this, and yet -

Bull’s fingers hit play on Lavellan’s audio posts over and over and over. He’s had the memorized for months, now. A perk of Ben-Hassrath training. His memory is top notch, even when the rest of him is rapidly falling behind.

Sometimes he can get by with just one of her voice recordings. Sometimes he has to have her in his ear for hours before he can get himself to open his eye and look at whatever’s in front of him and _deal_.

He’s not the person he once was.

He knows all his favorite ones, by now. He knows where to skip in the audio, he knows where to anticipate the certain way she’ll say something, or when she’ll pull out one of her signature strange and mesmerizing puzzles of words and images. Bull knows which posts he needs before he needs them, he knows which ones to avoid so he doesn’t make himself feel worse.

This is a crutch and he knows it. He just can’t find it in himself to break away from it, from her.

Sometimes he can even delude himself into thinking that it isn’t so bad. There are worse things. After all, he packed away all of her things. Got rid of most of it. Gave tons of stuff away - almost all the plants, for example save for a couple that even he can take care of and gives the apartment less of a dead feeling; and most of her clothes except for an odd sweater or scarf that she cherished as important gifts that he keeps in a box in the back of the starkly empty closet in their bedroom. Bull was doing fine until he got to - until he got to her social media pages.

“Kadan,” Bull breathes out, slow and ragged, as he focuses on trying to get himself out of bed.

“ _Good morning,_ ” He freezes. “ _Brush your teeth, stinky._ ”

Bull holds very, _very_ still, fingers curled around his phone. He tells himself not to crush it.

“ _I said, good morning_ ,” Lavellan’s voice sounds a little petulant. “ _Aren’t you going to say it back?_ ”

“Good morning,” Bull says out of reflex. “What kind of fucking joke is this? _Who the fuck is -_ “

“ _You know I hate it when you talk like that_ ,” Her voice quiets, “ _You know I get frightened when you talk that way_.”

Bull’s chest squeezes, “ _Kadan_?”

“ _Who else?_ ”

These are not recordings. Bull glances down at his phone. It isn’t even open to the blog app. But it’s still her voice. It’s still _her_.

“No,” Bull whispers. This is it. He’s finally fucking lost it. He’s a little surprised it even took him this long. “ _No_.”

“ _You aren’t reacting how I expected you would_ ,” Lavellan’s voice says. There’s a weird sort of electronic static - a stutter - to the words. “ _I thought you’d be happy._ ”

Bull’s chest threatens to tear him in two.

“You’re dead,” He says, “How could I be happy with you dead?”

“ _Well. I’m talking to you. So that’s some sort of plus, right?_ ” Lavellan asks, voice playfully curling up. It can’t be real. It absolutely cannot be real. “ _I missed you._ ”

Bull’s fingers hold onto the phone like a damn lifeline.

“I miss you. We all miss you.” Dorian, Cole, Sera, Cassandra, Krem, Rocky, Josephine - _all of them_. Dorian’s right after all. Bull isn’t the only who loves her. And was loved by her.

“ _Well. I’m here now_ ,” Lavellan says, “ _Now what?”_

Now, Bull has to figure out if he’s gone insane. Now, Bull goes to find Dorian or whoever else will listen to him and show them this. Now, Bull goes to plug his phone in to charge so he doesn’t lose this small miracle.


	23. Chapter 23

“I heard that Dalish elves have their souls separated from them at birth, or that they’re born that way,” Bull says, leaning back against the low stone wall as he watches the residents of Haven move around to continue expansion and fortification of what is basically a village in the middle of the mountains. Village, even, is a generous term.

“Strange,” Lavellan replies, perched on the wall next to him, just out of his arm’s reach, “That’s what I was taught about the Qunari, too.”

“Just the Ben-Hassrath,” He says, pitching his voice a little lower. “You haven’t seen her yet, have you?”

“No,” Lavellan says. “Is she near?”

He can feel her in the sky above them; she senses the prickle of his thoughts and thinks a question at him. He waves her off and she continues to do her slow, widening circuit around Haven. Kata-kost likes to know their surroundings, and with the Breach and Haven’s growing importance on the map of Thedas the land changes a little every day.

It makes her jumpy.

“Enough,” Bull replies. “And yours?”

Lavellan hums, “There’s also a rumor that the children of the Dales have no souls. That we’re just hollow things - that’s why our eyes are so large, so dark.”

Bull snorts.

“Dalish’s familiar is a ram that’s _this close_ to lying down and taking an angry nap out of pure spite.”

Lavellan laughs, a bright thing.

It makes him jumpy.

“It is just a rumor.”

“Trying to scare the shem outsider?”

“You are no shem,” Lavellan says, and Bull turns to look at her. Her dark eyes seem to _deepen_ as he looks into them. “And you are rapidly becoming _not_ an outsider.”

“If not outsider then what?” Bull asks.

“Enough,” Lavellan says.

For a second he isn’t sure if she means she doesn’t want to talk anymore, and he’s already straightening up, getting ready to move away and give her space -

But Lavellan laughs again. Another bright thing.

“To you?” Bull asks. “Of what?”

“ _Enough_ ,” Lavellan repeats.

-

“Now,” Dorian’s soul says, curled around Dorian’s neck and reaching for Dorian’s staff to steady himself, “Would be a good time for you to reveal your plan.”

“That assumes she has a plan,” Dorian muses, “Very silly and presumptuous of you, Laertes, very presumptuous.”

“Hopeful, you mean,” Laertes corrects, “Tell us that you have a plan, Lavellan.”

“I do not have a plan,” Lavellan says, sounding incongruously cheerful for someone in the situation that she is currently in.

“I wish you weren’t so charming,” Laertes sighs, “It would be so much easier to be disappointed in you.”

“Sweet talker,” Lavellan muses, “ _I_ don’t have a plan. He does.”

She points at him.

Bull raises an eyebrow.

Dorian and Laertes give Bull a _look_. “And you didn’t speak up sooner, because?”

“It’s a risky plan,” Bull says, shrugging. “I’m still working on it.”

“How did you even know he had a plan?” Varric asks, “By the way, I checked our exit - no good.”

“I have so many regrets,” Drummond says, trotting behind Varric, “Oh, we sure know how to pick them.”

“He’s the Iron Bull,” Lavellan says, “He always has a plan. So. Plan?”

Bull raises an arm and waits.

Dorian and Laertes swear under their breath when Kata-kost lands on his arm. Her talons dig into the leather bracer, and it takes her a second to get her wings closed.

“It’s _my_ plan,” She says, feathers smoothing down as she looks them over. “But it is risky and involves gracious use of fire.” She looks directly at Dorian, “That is, if you’re _capable_.”

“Is that a challenge?” Laertes perks up, pulling Dorian’s staff from his grip, “Dorian, she’s insulting our abilities. We’re doing something about it.”

“Are we?” Dorian muses, pulling out a lyrium potion, “And here I thought we would just allow the blow to our pride.”

“Can you pin down the heavy hitters?” She turns to Varric.

“I’ve had years of experience holding off violent pricks looking to pick a fight,” Varric says, “Sure.”

Finally, she turns her head to stare down Lavellan, who’s come close to stand right in front of him, head tilted back to look into Kata-kost’s eyes.

“How bright can you get the Anchor to shine?”

“Bright enough,” Lavellan says, slowly pulling off her glove. “Though I can’t say as to _aiming_ the light, unfortunately.”

“Good enough,” Kata-kost prepares to spread her wings and Bull gets ready to boost her back into the sky. “Bull will relay the exact details of the plan. I’ll be watching - I’ll give you your marks.”

-

“You,” A deep voice calls out as Lavellan is about to exit the carriage, “Are not actually thinking of going into that slaughterhouse _alone.”_

Lavellan pauses, and turns as the Inquisition guards draw their swords.

Kata-kost lands on the top of the carriage, wings spread as her crest raises.

“Am I not?” Lavellan muses, turning towards the immaculately trimmed edge of the manicured grass that lines the long country road that leads to Halamshiral. “Mahanon don’t be rude, you’re scaring them. You’ve been shy for too long.”

Kata-kost’s crest raises higher and the souls of the soldiers all raise their hackles, defensive as _Mahanon_ slides out of the darkness.

A large varghest slips out of the shadows, massive head low to the ground.

“You are not entering that palace without me.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t, I just wasn’t sure if you wanted to come or not,” Lavellan says and then turns, walking past soldiers and friends alike, pausing at the gates, eyebrows raising. “Do you need proof of my identity? I was invited.”

“They aren’t used to their elves coming in through the front door,” Mahanon muses, ignoring the hissing and raised hackles and hair standing on end as he walks through them. Bull catches his eye and he swears that the soul _smirks_ at him. How he does it without teeth, Bull isn’t sure. Moments later, Kata-kost lands on his shoulder, and he shifts to accommodate her heavy weight. “Ignore their gawping, their minds are feeble. Move on.”

The Orlesian guards at the door fumble to open the gate - their souls, a sparrow hawk and a dog of some sort back up defensively as Mahanon slinks past them, Lavellan’s hand lightly resting on his shoulder.

“I do not like the way he looked at you,” Kata-kost says as the murmuring settles in. Josephine rushes off to catch up to Lavellan, her own soul looking harried as he quickly follows after her.

“How did he look at me?”

“He was waiting, watching,” Kata-kost says. “I didn’t see him in the dark. _He was already there_. Waiting for you, for us. He wanted to startle you. Us. All of us. And he wanted to pass you, specifically.”

“ _Why_?”

Kata-kost lets out a low, uneasy sound in the back of her throat. “That, I do not know.”

“Don’t corner him,” Bull says.

“I won’t,” She replies, “There isn’t a corner big enough for that in the whole place.”


	24. Chapter 24

“Are you worried?” Kata-kost asks as he runs his hand through her feathers, sorting them the best he can.

“About?”

“ _Mahanon_ ,” Kata-kost replies, talons curling with pleasure as he strokes down her breast.

“Not any more than usual. At least now we know _what_ her soul is,” Bull points out. And then - “It doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” Kata-kost muses, “We loved her before we knew the shape of her, but the question is, does the shape of her truly love _us_?”

“We’ve loved things that don’t love us back,” Bull points out. “And it’s never bothered us before.”

“This thing that we love, though,” Kata-kost says, angling her head at him so that he can see both of her eyes, “This one. This one will drain us dry and of everything we are. This one asks for everything without reservation. This one wants us down to our marrow. This one wants flight feathers and blood and whatever iron is left.”

This is not incorrect.

“The Qun let us keep ourselves,” Kata-kost points out, “We could hide things in the Qun. Ill advised, yes, but we _could_. It was _permitted_.”

“We are no longer part of the Qun. We keep what we want. We leave behind the rest,” Bull says. Kata-kost wriggles under his hand, and he moves back, leaning to allow her to flip onto her feet, tucking her wings in and turning to look at him. He can feel the careful prick of her talons through his pants.

“Is it worth it?” Kata-kost asks.

“How would I know?” Bull frowns. Both of them are frustrated with this tangle. They go around and around and around. To trust or not to trust.

“I do not like the way he looked at you,” Kata-kost repeats.

“I still don’t know what you mean.”

“He was measuring you. Whatever he found was _amusing_ to him,” Kata-kost’s crest raises, irritated. “He was looking down at you.”

“Maybe,” Bull replies. He can’t judge if he didn’t see it, himself. “We’ve been wrong about people before.”

Kata-kost’s gaze is sharper than her talons. “We’ll see.”

-

“Did you think I was a beetle in her pocket?” The voice makes Bull’s skin pimple, as if something was lightly drawing across his back. A finger, a feather, the faintest edge of a blade, a whisper. “Perhaps a butterfly in the air, a moth fluttering about, a spider with legs curled to abdomen?”

“No,” Bull answers.

“Lavellan’s soul would never be something so easily dismissed,” Kata-kost answers, gazing down at the varghest as he silently and deceptively slowly pushes the door to open to allow for his body to follow. “It would never be so _simple_.”

“Is that to say that I am complicated? Flattering words,” Mahanon muses, body slowly filling the room that is already small between Bull and Kata-kost. Kata-kost threatens to open her wings, as if she could dive in this small room and challenge Mahanon to a fight. Bull raises a hand to stop her. Kata-kost clicks her beak at him threateningly.

Mahanon’s tail finishes its slow slide in, and flicks the door closed behind him.

“What did you think her soul would be, the Iron Bull and Kata-kost? What did you think my shape would be? Tell me,” Mahanon’s eyes glitter, “Was I beautiful? Was I venomous? Did I have fur or feathers? Fins? Was I tame?”

“No,” Bull answers.

“We could not dream you,” Kata-kost says, “You had no shape, no presence, in our thoughts of her.”

“And now? Now that you do not need to dream me, now that I have shape, now that I am a presence? What now?” Mahanon asks, “What now, are your thoughts of her - of us?”

Bull narrows his eye and Mahanon’s body is still in the same way Lavellan’s is, standing at the edge of something vast with danger in her veins and an uncertain question hovering in the air.

“I love you both,” Bull answers and Kata-kost’s wing just barely grazes his ear when she lets out an annoyed sigh for revealing that so easily. “You are strange. You are new to us. But we love her, and you are part of her. So we love you.”

“Such pretty words, the Iron Bull. Are you, too, enraptured by her?” Mahanon tilts his head. “It is so easy to love her when I am out of sight, out of mind. You become enamored with her brilliance, her shine, her _brightness_. They always love her when I am not seen, when they do not see the truth of her. Bright things are dark things. They are irrevocably intertwined.”

“Is that why you leave her?” Kata-kost asks. “So that they can love her?”

Mahanon laughs. A bright thing.

“She is my self,” Mahanon hisses, “They will _never_ love her if I be hidden like a shameful thing.”

“She isn’t ashamed of you.”

“No. But we make compromises, do we not? To be with others?” Mahanon’s words are tarnished black with distaste. “Social creatures.”

“She hasn’t changed,” Bull says. “Whatever your shape would be. It changes nothing.”

“So you say,” Mahanon sneers, “That remains to be seen. Enamored as you are by her glittering self, what will you do when your hand finally reaches the source?”

-

“What happens when he tires of you?”

“You mean to ask, what happens when he tires of the question of _you,_ ” Lavellan corrects, Mahanon’s body bearing down on her and pinning her to the floor. She works an arm free and curls it around his thick neck, breathing in the smell of dry soil and stone and heat. His tail is a living agitation that rasps against the stone of the room.

“What happens when the Iron Bull and Kata-kost can no longer bear the thought of what I mean?” Mahanon asks. Light comes in from every angle of the room, wind and cold and mountain air. This far away from everything else, there is time for them to exchange thoughts in voices. “What happens when they begin to suspect fangs and poison underneath our truth? What happens when we are no longer a mystery and a puzzle to be solved and tamed in their eyes?”

“That is not what they see, and you are afraid because that is not something we have ever had to deal with before,” Lavellan nuzzles into Mahanon’s throat. She has missed the warmth of him, the steady pound of his heart. She’s missed this. She’s missed being _whole_. Mahanon presses closer to her. The stone heats underneath their bodies and she feels like she is being encased. In a good way.

“It is a _lie_ ,” Mahanon hisses.

“You see it and you know it is not,” Lavellan replies, running her hand over smooth scales even as Mahanon shifts angrily, “And it scares us. Because no one has ever asked us to _be_. There is always fear and doubt, but not once has there been _acceptance_. And perhaps we will always wonder if he means it without reservation when he looks at us and beckons us closer. If he means _me_ as a whole, or just half.”

“I do not trust.”

“You want to. We wish to,” Lavellan pushes lightly at Mahanon. He moves off her as she sits up, moving to curl around her back. “And that is why we should try.”


	25. Chapter 25

“You can’t plant cannabis in the yards of everyone who insults you,” Josephine says, “We’ve been through this. Bull, you said you would stop her. We can’t handle another lawsuit. We already have _five pending_.”

“Listen,” Bull says as he continues to help the others load trees onto the truck, “You can say that all you want and I can lie to you all you want about how sure I’ll try, but honestly? Not possible. For someone with one arm, less than half my weight, and built like a green bean, she’s impossible to stop once she’s got her mind set on something.”

“Example,” Sera says as she walks passed them carrying a tray of bulbs, “This entire business. We used to be a security force.”

“Now we plant things and make flower arrangements,” Skinner says, ominously wielding a garden hoe over her shoulder as she waits for Krem and Bull to finish loading a lemon tree to jump into the back of the truck and start arranging things from inside.

“Josephine if you were there you would have condoned it,” Lavellan says, waving at the tray of irises that Cullen hands off to Krem.

“No,” Josephine says.

“Yes,” Lavellan insists, smiling at Josephine, “And don’t tell me that Leliana and Harding can’t handle it. Don’t tell me that _you_ can’t handle it. You got me, Blackwall, Bull, Varric, Sera, _and_ Cole off of most wanted lists and out of prison.”

“And honestly we were guilty of half the shit we were going to the slammer for,” Sera says, slinging an arm over Lavellan’s shoulder. “We’re running low on cannabis, by the way. Try not to get so many clients who you know will piss you off.”

“Have Dorian send us some more,” Lavellan replies, “We’ll switch to poison oak for this house, instead.”

-

“It’s like you want us to be closed,” Cullen says with no small amount of resignation as Lavellan unfurls the plans for their latest landscaping project on the table.

“That’s a hedge maze,” Sera says, grin threatening to split her face.

“Yes,” Lavellan says.

“It’s shaped like a  - “

“ _Penis_ ,” Sera laughs.

Cullen sighs.

“Yes,” Lavellan nods. “The shape is designed to look like a penis, but this time it isn’t my fault.”

“Really?” Bull muses, leaning over her shoulder. Lavellan lightly pushes her elbow into his stomach.

“This one was _commissioned_ by Vivienne,” Lavellan replies, “For us to put on the estate of one of her - shall we say - least favorite acquaintances?”

“Who lets their enemy design their yard?” Cullen asks.

“Rich people,” Bull answers, “If it’s what the Madam wants that’s what she’s gonna get.”

“Cullen, I need you to shape some trees.”

“Lavellan, I need to submit my resignation,” Cullen replies.

“They won’t be penises,” Lavellan promises.

Cullen braces for it.

“They’re going to be vaginas,” She says, “Vivienne custom ordered pots and everything.”

Sera slowly falls to the floor, gripping the table as she wheezes, feebly letting to to curl up on the ground, laughing.

“You alive?” Bull asks her after a few minutes and Sera just draws in a groaning gasp of air before succumbing to more laughter.

Lavellan takes Cullen’s hands in her own and looks into his eyes, “Cullen, I need you to do this for me. She paid in advance in cash. And she is my good friend. Cullen, _please_.”

Bull _oos_ , “Busted. You’re sculpting vaginas out of trees. No saying no to that.”

Cullen lets out a low, strangled _whimper_.

-

Bull shushes Cole. He doesn’t have to, but they’ve all agreed it’d help Cole a little if they used the gestures. Cole mimics it back at him and then crouches down to crawl on the floor of the greenhouse, lowering his face until he’s level with Lavellan.

Cole lies down and continues to stare at Lavellan’s sleeping face.

Lavellan is sleeping on her side, head next to Bull’s hip, curled around a tray of cuttings.

“It takes energy to grow,” Cole whispers, “Sun and stars, morning dew and breath. Slow and steady, there is no race.”

Bull hums.

They can hear Josephine and Leliana’s birds from the second story of the main office from here.

“It won’t grow back,” Cole says softly.

“No,” Bull agrees.

It is not just a question of the arm that was taken from her. Or the mother and father she lost. Or the brother. Or the house. Or the job. Or any of it.

It is a question of the heart.

“They heal over their cuttings,” Cole says.

“It will heal,” Bull says, “But it will not return.”

“Even the things that were cut away?”

“We love regardless,” Bull answers.

-

“Why landscaping?” Dorian asks as they finalize the paperwork for the grand opening of the shop.

“I like it,” Lavellan says, “And it seems interesting. Does there have to be another reason?”

“You like a lot of things,” Dorian points out, “You like me, for example, and yet you didn’t want to follow me into my foray in politics.”

“I think we both know politics has had enough of me,” Lavellan laughs, leaning against Dorian’s side as she scoots her chair closer to his, watching him complete the paperwork. “You’ve gotten so good at forging my handwriting.”

“Only because you keep making me do it for you,” Dorian muses. “You like the Iron Bull.”

“That I do,” Lavellan agrees.

“And yet you didn’t choose to return his his old profession with him. Instead you shut down the Inquisition and you open a landscaping and floral arrangement business.”

“You all followed me into it anyway,” Lavellan points out.

“We couldn’t very well just _leave_ you to this by yourself,” Dorian says. “But you could have chosen anything. Why landscaping?”

Lavellan is quiet for a while, cheek against his shoulder as she puts her answer together.

“Shape and be shaped. People want so much from you. Plants will never hurt you. They won’t take from you. They ask that you give, and they ask for the simplest of things to live. And in return they transform the world around you. It’s a beautiful thing, Dorian. I wanted to be the one shaping, for once. I wanted to be the one to decide the final shape of a thing. I wanted something to need me, but I also wanted that thing to be alright with me as I am and to be alright with me when I can’t be what I should. They don’t mind if you can’t transplant them on one day because you feel like you’re aching so deep there shouldn’t be nerves anymore. They don’t mind if you can’t trim them for one or two days because the sunlight hurts your heart. And if on some days you can’t say more than a few words without choking on your pulse they’re alright with your silence. And if there are days where you bleed out words they’ll take it all without complaint or burden.”

Lavellan’s hand slides over the table, her arm pressed to his. Dorian swallows softly.

“You were never a burden,” Dorian says.

Lavellan’s knuckles press against the back of his hand and gently stroke down.

“Plants don’t love you, they don’t hate you, they don’t dislike you, they don’t get fond of you. Sometimes I don’t want to be any of those things. Sometimes it’s just easier.”


	26. Chapter 26

"Are you the witch?” Bull turns when he hears Rocky call out. He sees a woman with a staff examining a broken tree stump and some uprooted plants that were damaged from the passing storm.

“I am not a witch,” The woman replies, “I am a Lavellan. Or should I say _Lavellan_ , without the _a_? Well. Either with or without the _a,_ I’m not a witch, so I can’t be _the_ witch you’re looking for.”

Lavellan pushes her braid over her shoulder and bends down, hand reaching out as she begins to carefully put the plants back into the soil.

Bull narrows his eyes as he watches the plants perk and grow up under her touch. The tip of her staff glows lightly, surrounded in the faintly visible lines of runes and spell seals as she lightly circles the air over the plants. They grow a few additional inches, new leaves spreading out as they take firm root into the soil.

“If you’re not a witch how are you doing that?”

“I can do magic, but you didn’t ask that,” Lavellan replies, “Your friend asked if I was a witch. I am not a witch. Is your friend traveling with you a witch?”

Dalish lets out an affronted huff.

“The staff you have says you’re a witch,” Krem points out.

“Is your friend carrying a staff? Doesn’t that make her a witch?” Lavellan asks.

“It’s a _walking stick_ ,” Dalish replies. “I’m not a witch.”

“Well then how come _mine_ is a staff and hers isn’t? Is there a crime to using a walking stick in a forest? What if I have a bad leg? Or am poor of sight? What if I have terrible joints? What if I just want to use a walking stick?” Lavellan straightens up.

“I like her,” Skinner says, stepping past Bull and walking up to Lavellan. “We are looking for the witch to ask her to come on a quest with us.”

Lavellan blinks. “Is there a prince involved?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Lavellan sounds relieved. And then, “A princess?”

“No. It does involve nobility.”

“ _Oh_ ,” now she looks disappointed. And then, “Dragons?”

Skinner looks at Bull. Bull shrugs.

“Probably.”

“Oh, how _wonderful_ ,” Lavellan perks up immediately, “Why didn’t you say so from the start? Let’s go.”

Lavellan beams at them, “Let me go get some things for traveling and then we can be on our way. Dragons! How glorious! I _love_ dragons!”

Bull raises an eyebrow, “Funny, Trevelyan said you’d be harder to convince.”

Lavellan’s face falls and she raises her staff and points it directly at him, “Did you say _Trevelyan_? Which one? _Which Trevelyan_?”

“You know the Trevelyan’s _?”_ Bull asks, a little confused by the sudden change in attitude.

“Which Trevelyan?” Lavellan repeats.

“Evelyn,” Skinner answers at the same time Rocky says, “The smart one.”

Lavellan gasps, “ _Evelyn’s in trouble_?”

“Well,” Krem says, “It’s a long story.”

Lavellan hits the end of her staff against the ground and plants her feet, “Well I refuse to go until I hear it. What has she done _now_?”

“I like her even more,” Skinner says, sitting on the broken stump and giving Bull a look that says _your move_. “She knows that this is a fool’s quest just by hearing the name.”

“Evelyn has been cursed by an evil mage,” Bull says, “If she doesn’t find her true love within a year she dies and the rest of her house will fall into ruin. Granted, it doesn’t all sound bad except for the part about her dying and Maxwell having to go down, too.”

“The rest of that family can go fuck itself,” Skinner says.

“ _Skinner,”_ Stitches sighs. Skinner holds her hands up as if to say _what_?

“Evelyn wants us to find the mage and force them to undo the curse. She isn’t willing to risk Maxwell’s life on finding her true love somewhere in the vague direction of _anywhere on the face of this planet_ within one year,” Bull continues, “Also I’m guessing she’d also prefer not to die.”

Lavellan gasps, dropping her staff, “ _Cullen died_?” Her eyes begin to tear up immediately, “No one told me! How come no one told me Cullen died?”

Skinner smiles and Dalish snorts.

“Rutherford isn’t dead,” Krem says.

Lavellan blinks, tears in her eyes, confused, “Abducted by an enemy?”

“No, he’s still at the fortress with Evelyn,” Stitches says.

Lavellan frowns now, “Cursed into enchanted sleep, never to waken again?”

“No. Awake and not cursed or otherwise hexed that we know of,” Rocky says as Grim grunts, shaking his head.

Lavellan puts a hand to her mouth, “Is it the lyrium? Is it - is it? Has it really gotten so bad? Because Dorian and I are still working on that and of course Evelyn must know she’d be the first one we’d ever tell if we found anything - “

“You know Dorian?” Krem asks.

“Of course I know Dorian,” Lavellan replies, “I love Dorian. How could you not love Dorian?”

“Point is, no. Rutherford is completely fine,” Bull says.

Lavellan’s face cycles through confusion, incredulousness, annoyance, bewilderment, and an almost puppy-like embarrassment about clearly not understanding the quest at all. Bull doesn’t blame her.

non one here blames her on that one. Everyone who knows Evelyn or Cullen and in between went through that cycle when Evelyn first announced this quest.

“So - Evelyn is cursed to die if she doesn’t find her true love?”

“Yes,” Skinner says, nodding as she picks dirt out from underneath her fingernails.

“And - she’s sent you lot on this quest to find the mage to undo this curse so she doesn’t die at the end of this year?”

“Mhm,” Dalish nods, leaning on her staff. They’re all watching with amusement as Lavellan tries to puzzle it together.

“Cullen isn’t dead?”

“Alive and politely confused about how that’s possible, as always,” Krem confirms.

“He isn’t dying?”

“Not that anyone knows of,” Stitches answers.

Bull can visibly see the gears turning in Lavellan’s head.

“I don’t understand,” She finally says, feebly. “He’s _right there_ , why does she need a quest? That isn’t - that isn’t even a curse at this point.”

“For reference,” Bull says, “The evil mage is Surana of Ferelden. She got sick of watching the two moon over each other from afar and took care of it in the way she usually does. Except she underestimated the complete denial and ignorance of these two idiots.”

“Can’t they just?” Lavellan mimes mashing two heads together. “ _Kiss?_ ”

“It’s _Rutherford_ ,” Krem says by way of explanation. “Kissing is on the same level as fucking and he goes down faster and harder than a guillotine whenever he sees so much as a flash of _wrist_.”

Lavellan groans.

“So,” Bull says, “Wanna go on this quest or what? We figure that at least if we aren’t there we don’t have to deal with the fucking travesty of having to try and shove those two together to see the painfully obvious.”

“I’m in,” Lavellan sighs, “Ugh. _Trevelyans_ and their _drama_. I swear. And I thought it couldn’t get worse after that year Maxwell got locked in a tower.”


	27. Chapter 27

Frederic can't help but gape as he stares up at the high arching ceiling of the cavern of the Inquisition’s main military base. Pelts and long tapestries emblazoned with the Inquistion’s eye, Fereldan and Orlesian heraldy, symbols from the Free Marches to Antiva and Nevarra and Par Vollen and everyone in between hanging from the stone as dragons hang and twist and glide between them like leaves on trees.

“Amazing, is it not?” Leliana says, “Different from our research center and our main negotiation hall.”

“Yes,” Frederic admits, “I didn’t realize - I _knew_ the Inquisition had gathered dragons of all sorts to fly their banners, but I didn’t - “

“It’s hard to grasp the scope, I know,” Leliana laughs, “Don’t worry. Most people look the same when they first come here. Most of those who bear our mark are here, after all - watching and maintaining our dragons. Have you met Lavellan, yet?”

“ _The_ Lavellan nests here?” Frederic asks, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. The stone - cut smooth and worn shiny through magic and means - trembles under their feet. Both he and Leliana turn in time to see the Iron Bull landing with his flight.

The huge wyvern shakes moisture off of himself, the sound of his body and wings moving seems to rumble through Frederick’s jaw as the Iron Bull makes his way into the main docking bay, silently dipping his shoulder to one side to allow his passengers to slide off.

The wyvern straightens up, the sharp points of his broad crest puncture the air as he raises his head, large jaws parting just enough to let out a low call.

His flight disperses, some lowering themselves onto the ground to allow for supplies to be unloaded from their backs, others pushing off the floor and back into the sky to seek out their fellows among the tapestries and caves.

The Iron Bull looks in their direction and begins to walk towards them.

Frederic is used to the Iron Bull and his flight, he’s seen them plenty of times in the Inquisition’s Hall of Scholars.

The Iron Bull is still fascinatingly intimidating - from his one eye and his half-missing left fore claw to the deep scars that run across his hide.

“Just in time,” Leliana says, “Bull, Frederic hasn’t met Lavellan yet. Could you call her?”

Bull makes a sound like a low laugh, a creaking and rumbling sort of vibration. He walks over them, neither of their heads even come so much as feet within touching his underbelly.

Leliana flashes a smile, “Come. She’s Evelyn’s favorite dragon, did you know that?”

“I was under the impression that she was everyone’s favorite,” Frederic admits.

The Iron Bull rumbles above them and Leliana’s smile grows, “Good answer. I already had a feeling that she’d like you, but this just seals it.”

They walk across the wide cavern and through a large hole into an open landscape. It’s only accessible from the sky and through the cavern to the main dock that Frederic can tell.

Several dragons are sunning themselves or sleeping on the rocky crevices that line the steep walls that encircle the large lagoon.

The edge closest to them looks shallow, but Frederick can’t tell where the bottom is as it gets further out towards the opposite side.

A dark red and brown drake with elegant horns and a very noble sort of look about him glances up at them as they pass and lets out a low sort of croon.

Bull flicks his tail in response.

“Dorian doesn’t like to share sometimes,” Leliana says.

“That’s _the_ Dorian?” Dragons that can use magic aren’t as uncommon as you would think considering they can’t use staves or take lyrium, but dragons that _do_ actively create _spells_ and _use_ them are. Dorian is one of the few dragons that Frederic knows of - in recent history - that not only uses spells but also has invented several and deigned to share them with the rest of the world.

Bull stops walking at the edge of the lake and lets out a low, deep, ear-shaking call.

The water ripples and Dorian’s wings spread just a little and flap in irritation at being disturbed. A few other dragons blink themselves out of their mid-morning naps to look at them before settling back down to sleep.

The water continues to ripple and within moments a pearly head breaks the surface, and starts to come towards them, rising out of the waters as she arrives.

Lavellan trills out, the lace and flower-petal like fins of her crest fanning out behind her head as her neck rises above the water. Bull lets out another low croon and his neck stretches out over the shore towards her.

Soon enough, Lavellan is in the shallows and she reaches out with her left claw comes out of the water, catching at the shallows - the large translucent and beautiful fan of her wing arching out and catching rainbows in the light - dragging her onto shore.

Frederick can’t help but stare at the obvious and painful looking imbalance of it.

He had heard - she was so beautiful before the battle that took both Evelyn’s and her left arm. When she glided through the sky she looked like silk, they said, and when she swam in clear and shallow water, she was a dream.

Frederic examines the left side of Lavellan’s body, the stump almost to the shoulder where they had to cut off the infection, and the black scar tissue that crawls its way onto her body like lightning. She seems to have compensated well if she’s still capable of swimming - then again, her body is made for the water, with or without the large fan-like wings.

But it doesn’t seem to cause her pain, which is good.

Lavellan slowly drags herself onto the rocky shore, left claw pulling as the rest of her body snakes out of the water, long neck arching upwards to touch her nose to the Iron Bull’s.

Both their eyes slit closed as they hum in pleasure. Lavellan’s scales glow an almost rosy pink.

A third dragon spirals down, landing next to Lavellan, immediately pushing himself underneath her leftside to even her out.

Lavellan croons turning to nuzzle her head against the new dragon’s pale white and green head.

“Since the war, Cole’s taken to helping her whenever she’s on dry land,” Leliana says, “He’s normally quite shy around strangers but this seems to be helping him socialize more.”

Cole, the silent wind. During the war he was one of the Inquisition’s deadliest fliers.

“Lavellan, this is Frederic,” Leliana calls out, drawing Lavellan’s attention down to them. The Iron Bull moves away from them, going over to a large empty rock to presumably sun himself.

Lavellan and Cole edge a little closer to them, Lavellan’s long neck bending and curving down to bring her head down to a closer height.

“Hello,” Frederic says, “I am a draconologist, Inquisitor Trevelyan asked me to come here from the Hall of Scholars.”

Lavellan cocks her head, turning it so that she can look at him fully through one, inky black eye.

“She thought that perhaps with Dagna I could help,” Frederic says.

Lavellan makes a slow clicking sound.

“She misses flying with you,” Frederic adds on, remembering the way Evelyn’s voice softened and how her expression grew distant.

( _Don’t get me wrong, our dragons are all great flyers down to the very last one of them. But flying with Lavellan - flying with Lavellan meant so much to me_. _Her judgement and her instincts helped me so many times._ )

Lavellan’s fins flatten a little, drooping and the white tints to a gray metallic blue.

“Would you allow me to try and help you?” Frederic asks.

He does not say that for many, the sight of Evelyn astride Lavellan’s back in the sky - silk and dreams - has become something of a beacon of hope and the impossible.

He does not need to.

Lavellan hums lowly and then her scales begin to glitter gold.

 _Yes_.


	28. Chapter 28

“Gotta go,” Bull says, texting someone - his phone looks comically small in his large hands. And it’s already the largest size the brand makes. In any one else’s hand, it would look like a small tablet.

“What, hot date?” Rocky asks.

“Yeah,” Bull grins, “Meeting up with Lavellan?”

“Lavellan?” Stitches wrinkles his nose, the name sounds familiar.

“Yeah, we met her a few weeks ago,” Bull says.

Krem narrows his eyes, “Lavellan as in Dalish’s friend who we went to see at her first show? Pole dancer Lavellan?”

Grim makes a low sound of disapproval.

“You do know that they’re paid to look like they think you’re hot, right?” Rocky asks.

Bull gives the four of them a deeply unimpressed look as he puts his phone in his pocket.

“Yeah, I didn’t ask her out because she looked good dancing - she does, Dalish, cool it, I’m not insulting your three times removed cousin or whatever.”

Dalish looks like she’s about to rattle of two centuries worth of family ties but Skinner punches her shoulder as a distraction.

“I asked her out because around a week and a half ago I was getting ready to get kicked out and banned for life because there was a guy who got up on stage with her and was being fucking disrespectful as shit, and just as I was about to go and show him how it feels to be touched when you don’t want to be touched she punched him so hard he went flying across the dance floor.” Bull’s grin is dopey. “And she made it look like an accident. And she did it all after fleecing his wallet.”

Grim whistles.

“Yeah, sounds more like it,” Krem snorts.

“Bless her, I’ve always thought she was too good for the farm,” Dalish says, nodding in approval. “I’m going to tell her that right now. I mean, I tell it to her all the time, but I want to repeat it. I don’t think I’ve told her that, yet, today.”

“So where are you two going?” Stitches asks as Bull stands up, checking his pockets for his keys and wallet.

“Walk around the park,” Bull says, “Then bagels. And then a fish store. She wants to buy some aquatic plants.”

Krem and Rocky exchange _looks_.

Skinner and Dalish exchange _looks_.

Stitches and Grim exchange _looks_.

All six of them exchange _looks_. And then money.

“That doesn’t even sound like you, and for that reason and that reason alone I’m willing to wager two hundred dollars that there’s a date two and you wont kiss until date five,” Krem says.

“You don’t know Lavellan,” Dalish ays, “No kissing until date _twenty_ and it’ll be on the nose.”

“What, the kiss?” Rocky asks.

“I don’t know enough on this subject to bet, I’ll hold the money and the rules,” Skinner says, opening a note on her phone, “You have twenty four hours to modify your wagers. As usual, the only changes allowed post the first twenty four can be made due to a significant event which can be determined by either myself or a majority vote.”

“I don’t know why I haven’t fired all of you,” Bull says as he walks out the door. “I’m your boss, respect me.”

“Having to say that automatically means you don’t deserve it,” Krem calls out, “Work your ass off and make sure you get a kiss at date five. I don’t even care if it’s on the mouth. Crack your head open and make her kiss it better. I’ve lost too much money on you.”

-

“He’s just so _dreamy_ ,” Lavellan sighs, chin propped up on her hands as she watches the Iron Bull and his Chargers make their escape on television.

“He’s a _criminal_ ,” Cullen gently reminds her from the next desk, “Lavellan, you are about to knock over Cassandra’s paperwork.”

Lavellan lifts her elbows and allows Cullen to rescue Cassandra’s files and put them on his own desk. Chances are they’ll get lost in his organized chaos - Cullen’s preference is to keep it neat, but in the face of reality all his attempts at organization rarely last more than a few hours.

It’s driving him slowly insane and everyone knows it. Most of them feel bad about it, but not bad enough to help.

Lavellan lets out another sigh.

“He got away _again_ ,” Cassandra’s voice echoes from down the hallway, sounding appropriately upset for someone tasked with catching the notorious band of thieves should be.

“We look like idiots,” Blackwall grunts.

“Speak for yourself,” Dorian calls out, “I look _amazing_.”

He and Lavellan exchange high fives, Lavellan still staring at the television mounted and hanging from the ceiling.

“He _smiled_ at me _,”_ Lavellan says.

“He’s smiling at the camera,” Cullen says, “It’s not a good thing, Lavellan.”

“He’s smiling at _me_ ,” Lavellan repeats just as Cassandra and Blackwall come into view. Cassandra makes a face at the television and Blackwall scowls.

“He is a criminal and we must catch him before we’re all fired for incompetence,” Cassandra says, “And then they’ll bring in _Samson’s_ unit.”

Everyone makes noises of disgust.

At the same time Cullen’s phone starts ringing.

“It’s him,” Lavellan bounces out her seat. Cullen physically moves to block her from answering. She attempts to climb over him. Cullen sighs and is reminded of his nieces and nephews whenever Mia has him hold chocolate or candy out of their grasp.

“Answer it,” Cassandra says, already resigned.

“Hello?” Cullen picks up the phone and Lavellan partially succeeds in getting her legs around his waist and shoves her ear on the other side of the receiver, clinging to Cullen’s shoulders as she tries to listen in. Cullen sighs and switches it to speaker.

“Hey, sorry we left without saying hi or anything. We were on a schedule,” The Iron Bull’s deep voice says from the other side. “Are you even bothering to trace this call?”

They all look at Sera who flips them off and shakes her head, blowing an obnoxiously bright green bubble of gum at them and popping it loudly.

“No,” Cullen says.

“I’m a little insulted that you aren’t even trying,” Bull says.

“We’re trying,” Lavellan says.

“Hey,” Bull immediately perks up, “You see us on TV? Smiled for you.”

Lavellan smacks Cullen’s chest so hard he wheezes, “I _told you_. He _always_ smiles for me.”

“That I do.”

“Stop flirting with the criminal,” Cassandra snaps, “Bull return what you stole immediately. We are going to find you.”

“Sure you are,” Bull laughs, “See you at the next one, then. Take care - and Lavellan?”

“Yeah?” Lavellan’s nails are digging into Cullen’s skin and Cullen is _dying_ here.

“You look good in your uniform,” Bull says, “I should rob more places while you guys are at ceremonies more often. I like your dress blues.”

Lavellan _giggles_.


	29. Chapter 29

Something is trying to wake her - it gnaws at the faded and unclear edges of her mind as she drifts into wakefulness. Not quite there, but close. So easy to slip away again, surrounded in warmth.

The sound of distant birds, the cool crisp and freshness of the air, and the steady warmth that radiates from all around. It pulls her in, it calls her back. Sleep. Yes.

“You have to wake up, now.”

For what purpose? She doesn’t feel hungry, nor thirsty. That she can tell she can feel nothing to disturb her into wakefulness.

 _S’fine_ , he says next to her. She can feel the words through him. She can feel him, warm, comfortable, solid, _safe_. Lavellan presses herself deeper into the fold of his arm and chest.

All along her side she feels him, a wall of slowly expanding and shrinking breath. His stomach and chest are sleep-hot and his voice is dream-slurred as he curls her closer to him.

Lavellan keeps her eyes closed and starts to let go, pulling the edges of warmth and dreams around herself like a blanket, willing them to immerse her mind once more.

No reason to wake, no reason to stir.

Birds in the distance, being birds. Wind playing as wind. The soft comfort of a breath shared with you.

It’s all fine. There is no reason to leave this place, this moment. This moment has no reason to end. It can stretch on for as long as she wishes. As she allows.

And she does wish. She does allow.

“No. He didn’t love you for this, he didn’t love you _like this_. Wake up.”

Again, it pulls at her, tugging at her warmth, her nebulous grasp on _now_ and _when_ and _who_ and _what_ and _words._ Again, that thing begins to tug at her blanket of dreams, piercing and shredding its edges as it tears - _why_.

 _Go back to sleep_ , he mumbles, stirring a little, low breath at the end of his words, breathed out through the nose as his hand, clumsy with drowsy drowsing dozing, runs a soothing line up and down her arm. _It’s good_. _I got it_.

Yes, that’s right. It’s fine. Nothing wrong. If there was something wrong, wouldn’t he have told her? He would have woken her up. That’s what he does. That’s what he’s supposed to do.

Lavellan curls her fingers into sleep and pulls it over her head, tucking her face deeper into his body, into the cavern of warmth between them.

 _Love you_ , he says, kissing the top of her head and she smiles, stretching the arm closest to him to try and swallow the side of him. He’s too big for her one arm, but her other is so comfortable, curled up underneath -

“This is not how he loved you.”

Something is strange, Lavellan slowly curls her fingers, her toes. She can feel it, now.

And something, everything, that is conscious screams and warns for her not to remember, not to understand - but the unconscious cannot help it and once she is conscious it cannot be undone because these things cannot be helped and even as Lavellan drops the edge of the sleep that unravels, unfurls, undoes itself before her very eyes, she can feel the grasping hands of the other _why_ latch onto her, cutting into her and unwinding their own answers, pushing into her and poisoning her dream of dreams like strangling vines and hooked thorns.

It is in her.

This is not how he loved her.

Lavellan opens her eyes, sees his chest through her lashes and slowly looks up at him.

His eyes are closed and she reaches up with her perfect hand to touch his perfect face. He stirs a little, turning slowly enough to catch his mouth against her hot palm.

“Come back.”

Lavellan slowly sits up, the warmth leaving her as she slides out and away from the blankets and his body. His arm falls from around her, and he curls more onto his side, closer to her as if seeking her absence. She looks down at him, slides her hand over his skin. His cool, exposed shoulder, his warm neck, the hot and sleep-damp pound of his chest and heart.

 _Stay_ , he says, eye sliding open. Just a little. Just enough to see her. To call to her. _You don’t have to do anything._

 _I don’t want to leave_.

 _Then don’t,_ he catches her hand, bringing it to his mouth, eye closing again.

She can’t look away from him.

Birds sing. She can hear the faint crashing of waves. The air makes her skin feel like an ocean. The air tastes like waves. The wind plays through some open window somewhere against her hair, against her skin - it pimples a little, except for where she is still under the blankets and furs, with him. Except for where his skin touches hers and his breath fans out over her knuckles even as she rests her weight on her other hand.

 _I don’t want to_ , she says.

 _Don’t make them make you,_ he replies.

“This is not how he loved you.”

Even as the words come back to wakefulness, she sees it. She sees him.

It is so loud. It is unbearably loud even over her own heart which pounds in her ears, blotting out sound every other beat. She’s lost. She’s out numbered. She must get out.

They cannot end here.

A hand grasps her by the back of the neck, a familiar hand with a familiar squeeze, and she goes willingly. The Iron Bull pulls her through the crowds, shielding her with his body - fighting one handed better than she ever could. They are a rallying point, she and him. Him because he is tall and his voice carries. She because she is the heart of this cause, this resistance.

“Take her,” He yells, thrusting her into arms that are not his, “Fucking get her out of here.”

She looks up to him, dazed - weak with lack of energy, with the lack of enough blood in her veins, with too long slinging spells and fighting blows meant to be taken with two arms and a shield. He isn’t looking at her.

He’s looking at _them_. He’s looking at the people who are surrounding them and cutting them off too quickly from their main troops.

This was too badly miscalculated.

She reaches for him, but the arms around her catch her hand and pull her close.

“Understood.”

She thinks something must make it past her dry, dust specked lips.

He looks to her, his eye sparks fire that threatens to take her like summer undergrowth. This is the last time.

He says nothing.

Instead, he tears something from around his neck, and pushes it at her. Her hand cannot take it. Someone else takes it for her as she is pulled away.

He turns away, then.

Lavellan looks down at him, closed eye and sleeping face.

 _I do not want to leave you_.

 _Then stay,_ he says.

 _I cannot_ , her heart threatens to tear.

Before her eyes he seems to crumple and burn. All of it does. Disappearing like ashes in the wind.

Arms circle her and she draws in a breath.

“I’m sorry,” Cole says, “I am not as big as he. No one is ever as big as him.”

Lavellan closes her eyes and wills herself to not hold onto the dream, at the same time - she struggles against Cole’s enforced incongruity to submerse herself again.

“You told me to pull you back,” Cole says.

“I know,” Lavellan stops struggling against wakefulness - the dream has already escaped one more, like so many others - and leans into him.

“Boss?” Krem’s voice, makes her flinch. She sits up in the tent that is their tent that is too big for just her, and too small for everything that always wants to spill out, “We have to get moving.”

“Alright,” Lavellan says when there is no deeper voice to say _got it_ , no voice to respond to the unspoken title that will never be said again. “I’m coming.”

Krem’s shadow waits for a moment, not hesitating, just waiting, before leaving.

Lavellan turns in Cole’s arms to look at the space that will always be empty.

Their tooth is heavy around her neck, her hand finding the cord that holds the pieces together on their string.

“He would rather you were with them,” Cole reminds her. “He was so relieved when he saw the signal. He laughed. He smiled your smile.”

 _I know_ , Lavellan thinks. I know.


	30. Chapter 30

Mythal is so profoundly and incredibly right. He is ill suited to be a father in so many ways, and yet here he is.

Her hand is so small - so incredibly trusting and soft - curled around his fingers. Overall she is small.

How could he claim to be a defender of rights and elven kind if he can so easily ignore one of their own in need right in front of him?

He doesn’t regret signing the adoption papers. Not at all. He just wishes he were better at this.

In Mythal’s words, he’s always been better at fighting wars and staging protests rather than healing hurts and untangling problems.

Solas looks down at her dark, bobbing head as they walk back home from daycare. Ellana’s face is scrunched up in concentration - she has an odd fascination with counting her steps, one that he attributes to some sort of child’s game: the kind where rules are made up and discarded at a whim, the reasons behind them are mercurial at best, and the rewards are nonexistent.

The best sort of game, honestly.

“Did you enjoy it?” Solas asks, “You don’t have to go, if you do not.”

He knows that he gets close to no work done with her around the offices or playing about the apartment building when he’s working from home, but if she’s _unhappy_ in any way -

“No,” Ellana says, shaking her head. Today she has eschewed hair clips or hair ties until Solas learns to do it _right_. He’s not sure what that means, he’s watched the videos over and over again but she still insists he’s missing some sort of step.

“No, you didn’t enjoy it?” Solas’s chest squeezes uncomfortably. This is all so _new_. He’s even gone to ask Mythal for advice and she laughed at him. He could, in theory, go to one of their other siblings but he doesn’t think that they’re any better at parenting than he is. Really, they’re all awful at it, but Mythal’s children have all somehow managed to not get killed, assassinated, disappeared, or otherwise permanently injured.

Ellana’s hand squeezes two of his fingers as she braces to jump onto a crack in the sidewalk.

The walk from the daycare to the apartment is not very far, but going anywhere by foot with Ellana tends to stretch things out. Solas doesn’t mind. It’s a nice break from all the work, the eyes, the guards, the security.

In truth, that is all still present, they just tend to give him space when Ellana is near.

They are attempting to give her the best sort of life for the ward of an ambassador with strong liberal leanings belonging to a very much so traditional country.

“No, I want to go,” Ellana says, hopping up and down on the crack, “I made friends. I think I made friends.” Ellana suddenly looks up at him, “How do I know that I’ve made friends? Do I have to ask if we’re friends? I’ve never had to ask before.”

Solas carefully squeezes her hand with a curl of his fingers, “Do you feel like you are friends?”

“Yes!” She beams, “There’s a boy named Dorian and he can do magic like me, and his daddy is somebody important because these men in suits like the people in suits who pick you up for work came to pick him up from daycare and there was a big black car just like ours waiting for him.”

When Mythal suggested this daycare to him she did tell him it was a daycare for high profile children, so Solas isn’t too surprised.

“Do you remember the flags?” He asks.

“I drew a picture of them,” She immediately starts to squirm with her other arm to try and reach her backpack, not once letting go of his fingers. He had told her once never to let go of his hand while they were walking and she’s taken it to heart. Considering how she lost her parents and the rest of her family, he isn’t all too surprised by that. Solas pauses, putting his other hand on her shoulder and going to unzip her backpack for her. “It’s the yellow one with the pretty black designs, hahren.”

She called him _daddy_ once, and Solas is completely and deeply ashamed to say he reacted quite poorly to it. She hasn’t called him that since and he’s felt guilty about it the entire time. He wishes he could undo that mistake, or that she’ll call him that again one day.

Solas grimaces, “Dorian, you said?”

“Yes! He uses big words and he reads big kid books,” Ellana says, bouncing a little. Solas zips her bag up and stands, Ellana tugging on his hand with her fingers. “And, and, and I met this girl with ears like mine, she’s an elf, and she said some mean things to me at first but then, but then she gave me some jam and it was yummy and she introduced me to this pretty girl named Evelyn and we played on the slide and we slided lots until Miss Flyssa said we have to go inside.”

“Slid,” Solas corrects absently as he examines the impressively neat and accurate drawing Ellana has done of the Tevinter coat of arms onto yellow construction paper. “This is a very good drawing, little one.”

Ellana giggles, swinging his hand back and forth.

“And I met a boy and I like him, you would like him too. He’s an older boy,” Ellana says and Solas hums.

“And why would I like him, do you think?”

“Because when we were having snack time we had celery and cara- cara - carm - “

“Caramel?”

“Caramel with pretzels and he ate all of his pretzels and caramel but he didn’t finish his celery. And I was going to tell him that his celery is all lonely now and I’d eat it if he didn’t want it but he was at a table with bigger kids and all of them were really big, hahren. They were big like three of me! Four of me! Five of me!” Ellana waves her arm out and Solas laughs under his breath. “And his Tama - “

“His mama?” Solas asks.

“No, his _Tama_ ,” Ellana says.

Solas looks down at her, stopping. Ellana stops with him and looks back up at him, brimming with energy.

“Where did you learn that word, Tama?”

“That’s what the big kids all called their Miss Flyssa,” Ellana says, oblivious to the sudden storm of conflict that’s rushed into Solas’s head, brushing away thoughts of Ellana’s drawing skills and his relief at her making friends and having a good time. Mythal had said he was doing an incredibly poor job of socializing her.

He’s beginning to it’s quite the opposite.

“This boy, did he happen to have gray skin?”

Ellana bobs her head.

Mythal neglected to mention that this daycare also hosted Qunari children - in addition to Tevinter ones.

Ellana impatiently tugs on his hand, “ _Listen_.”

Solas nods for her to go on.

“So he didn’t eat his celery but his Tama said that he couldn’t go play until he had eaten two more things off of his plate so he pulled out two more pretzels and ate them right there and then left to go play,” Ellana laughs, “And I thought of _you_ hahren because that’s just like _you_.”

Ellana drags out the word _you_ as she laughs, suddenly bouncing closer to him and wrapping her arms around his leg, dissolving into the loud laughter only young children can have. Solas helplessly rests his hand on the back of her head.

It _does_ sound like him, in all honesty.

“You enjoyed daycare?” He says, resigning himself to having his child close to the threat of both the Qun _and_ Tevinter.

“Yes,” Ellana says against his leg, “Can we go back?”

“Tomorrow,” Solas says, bending down to pick her up. She goes easily enough, stretching her small arms out to grab at him as he props her up on his hip, adjusting his hold on her. “Tell me more about Sera and Evelyn.”


	31. Chapter 31

“So this is what it's like to be a man,” Solas’ face grimaces, and the oddly _emotive_ and open fluctuations of expressions on his normally mild ice makes everyone - in everyone else’s bodies - stare in bafflement. “It’s really over rated, how do you _pee_?”

Bull’s body laughs, “I like this.”

Dorian’s body wrinkles his nose, “Da’len speak to me later.”

“Don’t you touch your body using mine,” Cassandra’s body says, turning to glare at Solas in Dorian’s body, “ _Don’t_.”

“This is all very eerie,” Cole says looking between all of them, “You all feel strange. I know how you feel but I don’t expect it from the direction you are in and when I look at you it is like I am not looking right. You are still you except for how it’s _not_ you and it feels _wrong_.”

“Now you can really call me tiny,” Varric’s body says, hitting Vivienne’s knee.

“I feel like I am going to get killed,” Vivienne’s body says.

“Why, have you done something wrong to my body?” Vivienne asks from Blackwall’s mouth.

Sera, in Bull’s body, waves her arms, “Holy shit, your dick is huge.”

“It’s _proportional_ ,” Bull says from Varric’s mouth.

“No, it isn’t possible to sleep off,” Solas says from Dorian’s mouth at Cassandra in Sera’s body and Blackwall in Lavellan’s.

“So, what’s it feel like to be the Inquisitor of Thedas, aside from short?” Varric asks.

“Wet,” Blackwall says, awkwardly standing with Lavellan’s legs apart.

Lavellan laughs, holding Solas’ sides as she doubles over in his body, “ _I’m missing my time of the month for this_. I love it! I absolutely love it! Bull, Bull in Varric’s body, not Sera in Bull’s, _look!_ ” Lavellan spins on Solas’ heel. “I’m a _hahren_ now. Does that mean people who do what I say instead of just pretending to do what I say and then going to find someone they think has more authority? Like Cullen or Leliana?”

“Joke’s on Cullen, they just go around him to Rylen,” Bull says, “Yeah, I see you. It’s weird having two eyes again.”

On cue, Sera in Bull’s body violently windmills his arms. Everyone attempts to duck - awkwardly, unused to each other in their new bodies.

“How the hell do you swing around a giant metal _sword when you can’t see shit_?”

“Practice,” Bull shrugs, reaching around to unholster Bianca.

“Oh no you don’t,” Varric grabs Bianca from Bull’s hands, “Bianca is a finely tuned machine. You aren’t touching her.”

“Don’t touch that dirty crossbow with my hands, I won’t tolerate the smell of oil,” Vivienne snaps, pulling Bianca into Blackwall’s hands. “Varric, as much as I do respect your adequacy at socializing I’m going to have to tell you to keep your mouth shut as soon as we leave this room. I absolutely cannot have you ruining my reputation.”

“I want to die a little every time you move in my body,” Dorian says, “You don’t know how to work my angles at all.”

Dorian’s body pointedly looks _away_ from Dorian in Cassandra’s body.

Solas’s body bounds up to Varric, quickly crouching down to be at eye level, “I’m a little jealous I didn’t get to be Varric because maybe then I could have found Varric’s notes on his next book for Cassandra much easier. Hahren, your body feels _creaky_ , did you know that?”

“I am well aware of my age, Lavellan.”

“Yeah, be gentle with my body Sera,” Bull says, “I have _plans_ for that body.”

“Gross,” Sera says.

“Bull looks, I have _freckles_ ,” Lavellan laughs, pointing at Solas’ face.

“I can see it, boss, I’m really weirded out by it, but I can see it fine.”

-

“You can’t give cats milk,” Cullen quickly bends down, picking Lavellan up off the floor before she can drink out of the saucer Dorian put down. Lavellen makes a quiet _oop_ sound as he adjusts his hold on her. Lavellan immediately twists in his arms and starts climbing onto his shoulders, settling into the collar of his coat.

“Since when?” Dorian asks.

“Since always,” Cullen says, moving his neck to allow Lavellan a little more room. “Kittens can drink milk; fully grown cats get sick when they do.”

“Spoken like a true farmer,” Bull says, entering the room, “Hey boss, still a cat?”

Lavellan meows loudly into Cullen’s ear, going easily when Bull reaches for her and picks up her up.

She’s been a cat for the past week, some sort of elven ritual that she underwent without telling anybody about it. From what Cullen understands, it’s meant to give her new insight or some sort of awareness. He’s not particularly sure about it, all he knows is that it’s possibly botched considering how Solas reacted when Lavellan went up to him and started to kneed at his foot.

(“Figure it out, da’len,” Solas had said, bemused as he looked down at her, “You started the ritual, now you finish it.”

Lavellan let out a loud and unhappy meow, tail flicking up before she haughtily pranced away to begin to mew and whine and generally make herself look quite sorry at Cullen; he apparently acted appropriately in looking upset about Lavellan’s predicament because now she’s been going to him for sympathy whenever someone else rebuffs her and tells her its her own mess.

Cullen privately agrees, but he isn’t going to say anything because he still is concerned.)

Lavellan curls up in the crook of Bull’s elbow and begins to purr.

“Still a cat,” Bull confirms, “So, any progress?”

“Before or after Lavellan started to meow at me for an unknown reason?” Dorian asks.

For the most part Lavellan has proven herself to be quite clever at making her wishes known. When she really, really wants to. Or has to.

Otherwise, it’s anyone’s guess what she means whenever she meows, yowls, purrs, chirps, hisses, snarls, and such. So far the only one who seems to be having no trouble understanding her - aside from Cole, who just cryptically repeats her sounds back when asked to translate - is the Iron Bull.

Cullen is mostly just here to make sure they don’t poison her by accident. In example - he had to bodily lunge across the table the other night to make sure she didn’t eat an orange slice.

Lavellan looked _cross_ at him.

(“She misses healthy food,” Bull said.

“She’ll miss living more,” Cullen replied. And then he gave Lavellan a firm shake by the scruff of the neck when she kept trying to reach for the plate of cut fruit with her outstretched paws and chided, “ _Stop_.”)

Lavellan reaches up and smacks Bull’s chest with her paw, meowing for attention.

“Yeah?” Bull looks down at her. Lavellan twists in his arms, flicks her tail and sneezes, “Alright, yeah. Sure.”

“What did she say?” Dorian asks.

“She wants to go to the barn,” Bull says, already walking towards the nearest exit to the courtyard, “Stop catching mice, you always feel bad for them when you do catch them.”


	32. Chapter 32

“You have to marry our after school teacher,” Krem says as Bull counts them off into the car. Bull doesn’t actually register his words at first because he’s double checking that Skinner and Grim are actually in the car and haven’t jumped out the other side as soon as they got in.

“Check under the car for me,” Bull says instead, reaching in to take Rocky’s science project from him, “This goes in the back and you know that. You can show off to the others later.”

Rocky gives him an amused look, as if he won’t have Skinner go fish for it in the back later when Bull is too busy up front _driving_ to do anything about it.

Fucking teenagers. Bull can’t wait for this one to go to college next year. He’ll be someone else’s problem, then.

He hears Krem grunt as he ducks down, “No one. Wait, where’s Stitches?”

“I picked him up early,” Bull replies, “He has that club thing I had to drop him off for - is that everyone?”

“I’ve got Grim,” Rocky says.

Skinner and Dalish wordlessly hold up their hands.

Bull hears the passenger door slam closed as Krem gets into the front seat.

“Alright, that’s probably everyone unless you’ve gone and adopted another Grim,” Bull says. And then, “ _No more adopting other kids_. You’re lucky that Grim didn’t actually have parents that time because I’m pretty sure we would’ve gotten sued.”

Bull gets into the car.

“You have to marry the after school teacher,” Krem says. Bull grunts.

“What?”

“You have to marry Ms. Lavellan,” Bull feels Dalish’s legs swing out to kick the back of his seat. “She watches over the little kids in the elementary division. You’d like her. She can cook.”

Bull frowns, “ _Is that_ where you’e been stealing food from? God damn it, I keep telling you not to eat so much after school. It fucks up our meal schedule. I have this thing down to a _science_. It’s taken me _years_.”

“You’re missing the point,” Rocky says, “Because apparently you have to marry this lady.”

“Why?” Bull asks.

“Because there’s a bet,” Krem answers. Makes logical sense, yeah.

“What kind of bet?” Bull asks. “She hot?”

“She’s beter than _hot_ ,” Skinner says, “She’s _clever_.”

That picks at Bull’s interest, vaguely. “She’s a daycare worker.”

“She’s a former dignitary and police negotiator,” Krem says and Bull glances at him at a stop. “I may have gotten into a few fights at after school picking up Skinner and Dalish before. We may have gotten to talking.”

“I’m sending you back to military school,” Bull says.

“I graduated with flying colors, they don’t want me back,” Krem snorts.

“Is there a military school version of college?”

“The military?” Rocky suggests.

“Not until he gets a degree,” Bull says.

“Point is, you’d like her. You should date her and get married to her before she ends up with Dorian.”

“Who’s Dorian?”

“This guy who comes to do science and stuff with the elementary division kids,” Dalish answers, “He’s gay. But they’re like, best friends. Apparently they have a pact to get married and have a thousand cats if neither of them find anyone by fifty. That gives you a good twenty or something years to marry her so we can win the bet.”

“How do you even get into bets about this kind of stuff? Who are you betting against?”

“Sera and Cole,” Skinner says, “And Sutherland and his friends.”

“Oh, well if it’s _Sera and Cole.”_

“They’re only betting against you because they haven’t met you,” Dalish says, “I think you two would be a charming couple.”

“Sure,” Bull says because Dalish thinks plenty of things are charming. She thinks the buttons on Grim’s pajamas are charming; apparently so are the rips on Krem’s jeans, the grass growing between the cracks in the sidewalk in front of their house, and the spiderweb she refuses to let him get rid of because it terrifies Rocky and Stitches in the corner of the garage.

“Glad you agree,” Krem says, “Because we gave her your number and you have a date with her tomorrow at six. Wear your good jacket.”

“The one without the blood,” Skinner clarifies.

“ _What_?”

-

“It’s going to rain, soon,” Isabella says. “We need to make sure all the ships are secure.”

“All the people, too,” Bull muses.

Tonight is a night of crossing. They don’t want anyone going where they can’t come back. In fact, they don’t want anyone _going anywhere_ at all.

It’s too easy to get lost, to get stranded. It’s too easy to be _found_.

Anyone who doesn’t have a damn good reason to be out, and a damn good reason to _stay_ , needs to be locked up tight against whatever might come out during the long moon.

“Will you be alright?” Isabella asks. “The Valo-kas are worried. So’s Sutherland’s group. But Sutherland’s kids are always halfway to panic at any moment.”

“That’s what makes them Sutherland’s group,” Bull snorts. “Throw them together with the Trevelyans and the Cadash and they’ll be good.”

“I probably ought to keep them away from mine,” Isabella muses, “I think Carver and Hawke actually feed on nervous energy.”

“Sounds right,” Bull laughs. They both look up into the sky as the bright moon glows, pearly and impossibly bright. The long moon has settled into the sky. Everything is washed out in grays and whites.

“Do you want me to go back with you?” Bull asks when he hears Isabella turn to go back to the gathering of ships.

“No,” Isabella replies, “Do you want me to go back with _you_?”

“No,” Bull shakes his head, lowering his eyes from the moon to the sea that’s eerily still. No waves. No ripples. A long black mirror of the sky that melts straight into the sand of the beach.

He hears her leave.

He watches _her_ return.

Out of the water, without a single disturbance or whisper, Lavellan rises; she rises out of it like you would imagine someone walking up invisible stairs from some lower floor to the upper deck of the ship.

“Panahedan,” Lavellan says, voice carrying through the still air to his ears. “It is yet another long moon. Will you join my hunt?”

Her feet stop at the shore, the strange and completely still line where the water stops on the sand. Not a single ripple to be found.

“Andaran ati’shan,” Bull returns, “For the long night and long night only, I consent to join this hunt.”

Lavellan raises her hand, and it glows from within the bright green of the otherworld. He takes it, and the magic of her curls over his skin, rising and rushing up over him. Lavellan’s teeth are pearls in the moon.

Her hand holding his, she turns and gestures out towards the ocean with the other, “On the long night my quarry runs to gain as much space between us where the worlds collide. Run with me. I want to catch him by the tail and never let go.”

Bull steps onto the water with her.

“I will have you back by the first light,” Lavellan promises, squeezing his hand, “Come. While the moon is young and our blood is thick.”


	33. Chapter 33

It’s hard to believe, considering that their normal Inquisitor is a set of opposable thumbs and vocal chords away from a particularly _breezy_ plant, but Lavellan as a child is _obnoxious_.

Lavellan, as an adult, is plenty obnoxious in her own way. But she’s _nice_ and she’s generally considerate and cavalier about most things. Lavellan, as an adult, is not obnoxious on purpose.

Lavellan as a child?

She flat out hissed at Cullen and refuses to speak a single word to _anyone_. Thus far Solas, Dalish, and Voth have managed to get one or two words out of her, but it’s like prying water from rocks.

Speaking of water -

“Stop,” Solas says, looking at Lavellan as she tears up. Dalish just smacked her hand to stop her from stealing straight out of one of Varric’s pockets. “Put it all back.”

Lavellan starts to cry.

Solas and Dalish look on at her, unimpressed.

“We’re _waiting_ , da’len,” Dalish says, each word crisp and prim and full of authority.

Lavellan immediately stops crying, giving Dalish a sullen look and starts pulling things out of the loosely tied dress that someone managed to scrounge up for her extremely small and thin body.

“If this kid didn’t have magic I don’t think the world would have been able to stop her from stealing the pants straight off of someone’s ass,” Varric says, sounding reluctantly impressed as Lavellan puts several things on the table that’s just tall enough to be at her nose.

This little Lavellan doesn’t seem to trust anyone here, not even Dalish; whom she’s made clear she’s obeying out of duress. It’s, again, a stark contrast to her fully grown version who would trust a convicted murderer to watch her gold purse.

Then again -

That’s basically how the entire Inquisition started.

“Remind me how long until we can turn her back?” Sera asks, “Because I am this close to throwing her over a rampart. It’d be messy. Splat. Like the goats from a few months back, yeah? But less goat, less trebuchet. More me just pushing her when no one’s looking. Or when everyone’s looking. We’ll see how much she pisses me off.”

“I’m working on it,” Dorian answers, incredibly haggard, “Trust me, I am _working on it_. I have bruises from where she kicked me in the shins. I’ve started to willingly be around de Fer when we’re on our mandatory breaks. She doesn’t go near the woman.”

Lavellan doesn’t go near most people _period_.

“You taking it alright?” Blackwall asks Bull who watches a tired Solas carrying Lavellan in his arms as he continues to go about attempting to help solve the problem of _how_ their Inquisitor got turned into an approximate five or six year old while keeping her under control at the same time.

Sadly, most of the things that seemed to be able to distract or otherwise occupy Lavellan when she’s an adult don’t work on her when she’s a child, and so she needs a constant minder.

(Lavellan, as an adult, could make watching ants move looked like the most entertaining and well written work of opera; watching grass grow could become the most novel of entertainment if done with her; the clouds, through her eyes, were actually the most magnificent of artistic masterpieces to ever be seen.

Lavellan as a child couldn’t care less about any of these things; which is oddly regrettable in that it feels like they’ve all lost something quite lovely with the loss of Lavellan’s dreamlike wonder.)

“As fine as anyone else is,” Bull shrugs. Lavellan flat out refuses to even _look_ at the Iron Bull. She goes and puts herself behind the nearest approved elf or large object until he leaves the area. “Is he seriously trying to dump her in the stables again?”

Blackwall turns to look in the direction Bull is looking and grimaces.

A few other people notice and brace themselves for the newfound inevitable.

Moments later loud _wailing_ can be heard followed by the sounds of agitated animals.

Solas comes out a few moments later, looking defeated with a bawling Lavellan in his arms.

Aside form the hart that Lavellan road in on at Haven - and then lost for a few weeks because of the Conclave and the chaos that followed, before it found its way back to her - none of the other animals seem to acknowledge Lavellan as _Lavellan._

Or if they do know her, they’re refusing to have anything to do with her until she returns to being a semi-reasonable adult.

No one particularly blames them on this.

As a result, the one place that they could have possibly left Lavellan and everyone would have been content with the results - Lavellan included - is now off limits.  

Dennet has never been more stressed or overworked in his employ: all of the mounts are upset that Lavellan has been changed into something strange and unfamiliar, and as a result have been acting unruly and more temperamental than usual.

Solas jogs up the stairs to the upper walls in an attempt to avoid disturbing others on the main walkways and paths.

He sees them and starts making a beeline for them, as close to desperate and fed up as he’s ever looked. It’s be amusing if the circumstances weren’t so - well. As they were.

“ _You_ ,” Solas says, thrusting Lavellan into the Iron Bull’s arms, almost throwing her. Lavellan is so surprised she stops crying and Bull’s so startled he actually takes her. “Watch her. I need to assist in research to get her back to normal and I am falling behind.”

He pinches Lavellan’s nose, “And _you_. Behave.”

He says something quickly and lowly to her in elvhen and walks away briskly, leaving no room for reply or protest.

“Well,” Blackwall says, everyone nearby staring and waiting for Lavellan to do something, “Good luck with that.”

He, along with everyone else, quickly backs up and prepares for more crying - real or faked.

Bull looks down at Lavellan.

Lavellan looks up at Bull.

“Do you want me to put you down?” Bull asks.

Lavellan slowly nods, wary as Bull sets her down. She stands, looking around, before looking back up at him.

The two stare at each other. It feels like the air turns to muggy swamp water and all the pressure of fighting Corypheus, Tevinter extremists, Demons, and Red Templars pales in comparison to the strangely intense eye contact between the two at this very moment.

Bull calmly stares down at Lavellan. Lavellan stares back. And then she blinks. Bull nods once.

And amazingly enough, when Bull turns around to start walking towards Cullen’s office to deliver the report he was on his way to deliver before he saw Blackwall, Lavellan trots after him. She looks reluctant about it, but she goes.


	34. Chapter 34

Lavellan fidgets nervously by the window, hands wringing the edge of her loose and misshapen dress, rocking on her little feet.

“Is she alright?” Dorian asks Bull who shrugs.

“Dunno, she’s been like that since Dalish dropped her off this morning,” Bull answers.

Lavellan looks from the window to them, lower lip caught between her teeth. She’s flushed bright red.

“Does she need to go to the lavatory?” Dorian asks.

“I said I don’t know,” Bull sounds a little frustrated.

“What’s the matter, spy training doesn’t work on children?” Dorian teases, trying and failing to be subtle about watching Lavellan.

“No,” Bull says, “Because children are unpredictable and hard to figure out. I like them, but some of the things they do is completely and totally out of the realm of common sense predictability and that makes it _hard_.”

“And yet you’re the only non-elf she’ll deign to listen to,” Dorian muses, “How does that feel?”

“I want the big Boss back,” Bull grunts and Lavellan’s feet make soft little thumps on the floor of the Herald’s Rest as she comes over to them, looking warily at Dorian before fixing her large eyes on Bull. “Yeah?”

Lavellan chews on her lower lip, wringing her dress even further and looking back at the window.

“Do you need to go?” Dorian asks her.

Lavellan shakes her head vigorously, dark hair flying before she turns back to stare at the Iron Bull.

Bull patiently looks back at her.

Lavellan appears to be weighing something, Dorian can almost imagine a series of scales and tally marks and other such implements of decision making going about in her head.

And then Lavellan takes in a deep breath and _explodes_.

“Why is she hitting the straw people with a sword? They can’t fight back, why is she hurting them, what did they do, how come she does that _all day_ , why doesn’t she get bored? Why are we here? Why is this place called Skyhold? What part of the sky does it hold? How does it hold the sky? Who named it that? Why is there strange colors in the sky?” Lavellan fires off, and then points towards the cooking area of the tavern, “How come it’s okay for him to drink a lot all day but it’s not okay for other people? How come Sera has a song about her? Did she have someone sing it for her? Did she make her own song? How do you get a song about you? If it’s a song about Sera why does she always look so upset when the lady sings it? Why do people get upset when songs are sung?”

Dorian beams, “ _There’s_ my Lavellan. Oh, I knew you were in there somewhere. I knew you weren’t just some random child that got switched with our Inquisitor by mistake.”

Lavellan rounds onto Dorian, pointing, “ _Why_?”

“Why what?” Dorian asks, any confusion about suddenly being asked _why_ cancelled out by his apparent delight at her torrent of questions.

“Why is the hair that’s supposed to be on the sides of your head growing under your nose? Where’s the rest of your clothes? Did someone forget to finish sewing on the last part of your shirt? Why do you smell weird?”

Dorian lets out an affronted huff, “This is the height of fashion, I’d have you know. And I do not smell weird. I smell _clean_.”

“No, you smell weird,” Lavellan wrinkles her nose. “You smell like itchy hot.”

“What’s itchy hot?”

“What’s fashion?”

“Alright,” Bull reaches down and picks her up, sitting her on his knee. “Let’s not get into fashion with the Vint. We’ll be here until we die.”

Undeterred, Lavellan reaches out and curls her fingers into the leather harness around Bull’s chest, “What’s this? What’s it for? Why do you have horns? Will _I_ get horns? How come you only have one eye? Why is your skin gray? How come Dorian is from Tevinter? Are _you_ from Tevinter? Why is Dorian so weak if he’s from Tevinter? Why are people from Tevinter mean?”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Dorian says, “But I feel strangely reassured now that she’s actually talking in sentences.”

-

Now that Lavellan’s apparently deemed most of the people interacting with her on a daily basis as _safe_ , the questions have been non-stop.

“Why?” Lavellan asks when Dalish sets her down next to Cullen so she can help the Chargers training some of the new recruits. Lavellan turns tup to Cullen, a little wary as she steps back towards Dalish who puts her hands on Lavellan’s shoulders and firmly tells her to _stay_. “Why are you a templar? Why do dogs like you? Dogs only like nice people. Templars aren’t nice people. But dogs like you so you must be a nice person. Why?”

Cullen looks baffled and shoots a helpless glance at Dalish who’s flapping her hand at him in a _take care of it_ motion.

Between Dalish, Solas, and Voth - who really only managed Lavellan when the other two were too busy, or _sleeping_ \- the three elves are positively ecstatic that Lavellan is starting to open up to other people. Even if it is to question them in increasingly impolite and frank ways.

“If you’re a templar how come you aren’t at a tower?” Lavellan continues to pepper Cullen with questions. Rylen is laughing in the background. “Why don’t you wear the funny dress? How come you aren’t mean to spirits? Cole is a spirit. How did Cole get the name Cole? Spirits don’t get names. Did you name Cole? Can _I_ name a spirit?”

“Alright, little boss,” Bull calls out, “Leave the man alone. He’s Ferelden, he isn’t good at questions. Just dogs.”

Lavellan seems to turn this over in her head for a moment or so, staring at Cullen as if that would help verify Bull’s statement.

Cullen helplessly stares back at her.

“Where’s your dog if you’re from Ferelden?” Lavellan asks. “Show me your dog.”

“Ah,” Cullen turns and glares at Rylen who’s started to _wheeze_. “I don’t have a specific dog, myself. But I do _know_ some dogs. The same dogs also know Rylen over there. Why don’t you ask him to show you where the kennel is? Rylen’s entire day is free.”

“It is?”

“It is _now_.”

-

“You know, Chuckles, you’re actually good at this whole parenting thing,” Varric says, helping himself to a seat as Solas begins sorting out his materials for the day.

“Keep your voice down,” Solas says, voice low, “She’s sleeping.”

Lavellan is nothing but a small tuft of black hair buried underneath furs and blankets on the couch pushed to the side of the rotunda.

“How does that work, anyway?” Varric asks, lowering his voice, “She’s in the middle of the rotunda.”

“Enforced quiet time,” Solas replies, “I’ll almost miss it when she is returned to her normal state.”

“Admit it, you like her as a brat,” Varric says. “You handle it well. Makes a guy wonder how much experience you’ve got.”

“I assure you, it’s _none_ ,” Solas replies, “I have never raised a child.”

“And yet you do it so well,” Varric muses. “And she seems to like it, too. Who was it who made the sling for you to carry her in, by the way?”

“Dalish,” Solas answers, sounding a little cross, “It’s actually hers, we just pass it between us depending on who she’s with. She should be by to pick her up for today.”

As if on cue, Lavellan suddenly sit sup, pushing the blankets and furs off of the top of her body with a small _puff_. Lavellan’s eyes are still closed and her little hands are spread out on the covers.

Lavellan makes small mumbling sounds before quietly extracting herself from her nest of blankets and hopping onto the stone floor. One of Solas’ tunics is loosely tied around her.

Eyes still closed she runs over to them and wraps her arms around Solas’ leg and mashes her face against his thigh, mumbling something.

“Good morning,” Solas says.

Lavellan lets go of him and goes over to Varric and hits her head against his arm.

“Morning, kid,” Varric says, amused as Lavellan yawns, trotting back to her make-shift bed to begin folding her blankets. It’s funny since the blankets are for the most part larger than her. She manages to get them all folded.

Lavellan then goes to wander off.

“ _No_ ,” Solas says, not looking up from where he’s arranging his notes, “Wait for Dalish.”

Lavellan lets out a little whine, “I can go myself.”

“Wait for Dalish,” Solas repeats.

Lavellan stomps her foot but goes back over, small hands clinging to the edge of the table and pulling herself up to peer over the edge of it.

“ _No_ ,” Solas says when Lavellan goes to grab at something.

“Parent,” Varric says.

Solas shoots him a glare.

Varric shrugs, “Only parents get that eyes on the back of their head thing.”

“ _No_ ,” Solas says. “Lavellan _stop_.”

Lavellan huffs and lets go of the edge of some papers. “I want to go.”

“Wait for Dalish. She’s going to take you for a bath.”

“ _No_ ,” Lavellan whines.

“ _Yes_ , go sit.”


	35. Chapter 35

The fire was getting closer. Lavellan, as ever, looked unperturbed.

“Should we run?” Bull asks.

“Why?” Lavellan returns, turning to look up at him; the lightning in her mouth flickers playfully. “Afraid?”

“A bit,” Bull admits.

“I am not your Dalish,” Lavellan reminds him, “I don’t burn so easily.”

“But you do burn,” He reminds her.

From the sea or not, Lavellan is still of the forest. There is water in her, but it does not rule her.

Lavellan’s touch is cold against his skin, calming and exhilarating at once.

“Are you afraid?” Lavellan asks, dark eyes staring up at him.

“I trust you more,” Bull says.

Lavellan’s teeth are the false promises that cause children to fall into wells and drown. She surges up around him, arms sliding over his chest and neck, face rushing towards his as she changes between the face he knows and the faceless.

Bull holds his breath and closes his eye. Salt stings like fuck whether it comes from a spirit or from actual water.

He can feel the brush of kelp - silky in the water, powerful - against his skin.

She moves him, she moves _them_.

The Venatori never knew what hit them when they made an enemy out of her. Bull’s glad that they did, in a round about way.

Lavellan is dangerous and all sorts of bad and lurking things. But she’s the kind of bad you want on your side. She’s the kind of bad that Bull _wants_ on his side. At his side.

Semantics.

And Bull thinks Lavellan happens to feel the same way.

Lavellan’s tide calms and leaves him - he can feel the water drawing away from the surface of his skin slowly, gently, almost _intimately_. The fine edges of kelp cling to his skin before receding and nothing is left, not even the dry pucker of salt when he opens his eye to her, the fire long gone.

Lavellan stands before him, and he turns to see the fire they left behind still raging away with nothing to burn.

“Afraid?” Lavellan asks again.

Bull hums, “Always.”

With friends like these? Who isn’t?

She laughs.

-

She hits the waves and she feels them welcome her, calling to her. It’s in her bones, and she can feel the pull of her clan from deeper and farther in. She begins to unwind herself, her spirit stretching and returning to how it should be.

Another strand in a forest of ever swaying, ever aging, ever alive singers and lovers.

She can feel Mahanon swell through the waves to greet her, and their selves collide, pushing and churning through each other with memories and thoughts.

It’s enough to make her breathless - this feeling of being whole and surrounded by the comforts of the music of the sea. She breathes and there is salt and water and there is the sway of the ocean’s winds and the ocean’s heart.

She breathes and her ears are filled with the sounds of the rest of Lavellan, echoing from the depths of the water, farther and farther and farther down.

Mahanon runs himself through her hair, over the rocks and onto the sand and back again into the shallows. She swirls herself through his arms, the dips and crevices of stones that have not yet been worn down to sand by the pull and push of the waves.

All of Lavellan - and here, at the sea, at the Waking Sea, off the coast, she is not Lavellan because Lavellan is _all of them_ and not just her. She is not the only one from their forest so she is not _Lavellan_. She is herself again - laughs and sighs, bubbles streaming upwards from hundreds of strands of thick and strong and healthy kelp that rise to the surface as foam.

Their leaves and strands knock and bob together.

She pushes towards them, even as the waves knock her back. It’s so easy to remember how to be still and how to move with the tides after months of dry land and drier air.

She turns back, casting out the net of her mind and thoughts towards the shore; she looks towards the shore where she can feel his boots damp with the faintest edges of Lavellan’s hair, Lavellan’s last faded drop of laughter as it bubbles, bubbles, bubbles away.

She turns and Mahanon thinks at her, _what more must you do?_

She curls the strands of herself into Lavellan, all of them linking together and braiding themselves into a solid resonant hum of strength.

There are some who do not understand. There are those who do not understand but support her anyway. And there are those who know what is like to have touched and grazed upon the mountains. There are mountains in the sea.

 _It is not what I must do,_ she thinks at the one who’s strands have been woven and tangled with hers since the beginning as they grew ever upwards, _it is what I have done_.

Their memories slide and hum together as she presses herself to him and he holds her.

It is not goodbye, because all things return to the sea. It is not forever because there is nothing forever but the water. But it is something.

 _My tide is with you_ , Mahanon says, kissing her eyelashes as she begins to reform and drift to the surface of the water, _I am with you_.

She kisses them all goodbye.

The Iron Bull is watching her from the shore. He looks older, now. Older than the first time they came to these shores and that first time she came back, older still than when they first met and he asked her what happened to the land sisters and brothers of Wycome.

“Let me guess,” He says as she walks back to him, “Your tide is still in my favor.”

“For now,” Lavellan - Lavellan, now, because she is the only one he knows, the only Lavellan on land with him, _for_ him - answers, sliding her hand into his as they walk from the shore. She can hear her forest-kin calling out to her, wishing her well and calling for her safe return. “What will you do with it?”


	36. Chapter 36

“I’m telling you, they’re _dating_ ,” Voth says, thumbs moving rapidly over his phone as he pulls up videos, “Look. See? _There_? I was watching one of the Iron Bull’s self defense videos with Shayd and I swear to you I saw the exact same plant.”

Sutherland looks, understandably, skeptical.

“You saw the same plant,” He repeats slowly, glancing at Rat for any hint that he isn’t crazy. Rat shrugs, looking just as bewildered as he does. “So…they’re dating.”

“In the exact same pot, right Shayd?” Voth looks at Shayd who nods.

“He’s right, Sutherland,” She says, “Same plant. Same pot.”

Sutherland and Rat lean in close to the phone Voth is holding up to them. It shows a paused video from MommyandPoppy, a video channel dedicated to DIY projects that usually focus around gardening and redecorating. Recently the channel has been about tutorials for people with mobility problems.

Lavellan, the host of the channel, had some sort of accident a year or so back and as a result has been steadily recovering and sharing her progress through vlogs and videos focused around sharing the things she’s learned to adapt to her new situation.

“Voth,” Rat says, glancing up at the man, “It’s just a regular cactus in a clay pot.”

Voth gestures for Shayd to show them her phone. She holds it out and it’s a paused video of the Iron Bull with one of his assistants, Grim, doing a tutorial on how to break out of zip-ties.

In the background there’s a cut of blurred image of what could possibly be the same cactus in the same plain clay pot.

“I’m not seeing it, Voth,” Sutherland says, “It’s a plant. In a pot.”

“There’s more,” Voth and Shayd nod and simultaneously begin to go through their video feeds. “There’s snapchats that show them in what looks like the same area at the same time, and sometimes their videos look like they could share the same location. I’m telling you, Sutherland. They’re a couple.”

“Based on a clay pot and some vaguely matching backgrounds you’re presuming these two internet celebrities are a couple and you couldn’t believe Shayd and I are dating when we flat out told you that we were dating?” Sutherland asks.

“We all know Shayd is too good for you,” Rat pats Sutherland’s arm.

Sutherland glares at them, “Why are we even friends?”

-

“Hello,” Lavellan waves on the screen, “Surprised? This isn’t my normal channel, but this _is_ my house so I don’t think I’m to far off course by showing up here.”

Voth and Shayd look so smug Sutherland isn’t sure how their faces haven’t split down the middle.

“Now, you may be wondering why I’m in this video,” Lavellan says, “Because for those of you who don’t know me, I am the face of MommyandPoppy which is definitely not HornsUp. I’m here because the Iron Bull, main person behind HornsUp, and I cohabitate and - “

“Way to put it,” Sutherland recognizes Sera - who runs a social justice and sewing cannel, though she sometimes comes onto HornsUp to help with demonstrations. Sera and Rocky also host the video series _Mock the Weak_ that points out all the flaws in movie stunts and how it could’ve been better. This usually involves saying something along the lines of _more boom_. “Cohabitate, what are you even? They live together. They’re a thing. It’s gross. Sometimes they stare at each other and smile. Ugh. Sickening.”

“ - and we’ve decided that maybe it’s time that I get back into being on HornsUp.” Lavellan finishes speaking without even a hint of acknowledging Sera’s commentary.

“Lavellan was on horns up?” Rat asks.

They’ve been watching HornsUp for a while now, and they’ve never seen Lavellan on any of the videos - past or present.

“You may be surprised, but way back, I was on HornsUp for a while. I looked different, then.” Lavellan beams and holds up the remains of her amputated limb. “I had _two whole arms!_ ”

“Who let her decide to run this video?” And that’s Dorian, who Sutherland recognizes from Lavellan’s videos. He also comes onto HornsUp every once in a while to do demonstrations with a bo staff with Dalish.

“Well, Bull and his lot are doing the announcement on her channel outside,” Josephine says from off screen, “So there’s really no one to stop her, when you think about it.”

“Are we going to edit this out?” Lavellan asks.

“No,” Sera says, “This is pure gold. It’s a train wreck about to hit an oil truck. Floor it.”

“Anyway, I stopped showing up because of reasons but we’ve decided that after so many months of me being away it was time for me to come back. And so I’ll be starting a video series on HornsUp focused on how to fight back when you’re otherwise abled. Like, say, if you’re missing an arm.” Lavellan looks down at herself, “Or part of it, anyway. Also, by the way, a lot of people are commenting on the fact that the main backdrop for HornsUp got repainted teal wth metallic gold chevrons and I’ll have you know that in _my_ house we use _textures_. You can have your boring buttercream yellow back when Bull moves his main film set out of our spare room. I have _plans_ for this house, you know. _Plans_. Starting wit - “

“Alright, love, I think you're getting off topic. Sera, I think this would be a good time to cut.”

“Are you sure? Because she hasn’t even started talking about how much she wants to rip out the flooring.”

“The flooring!” Lavellan throws her arms up, “Can you believe he wants to stick with _this_? It doesn’t match the rest of the house at all! I told him that he should have been the one to take the separated garage for filming, but _no_. _You built it, babe, you should get to keep it for your videos_. Ugh! How was I supposed to tell him I built that place for him to get out of the house more? _I love that man, but I swear if he dents the drywall one more time_ \- “

“I told you,” Voth preens when the video abruptly cuts.

“The one on MommyandPoppy is even better,” Shayd says. “Because the Iron Bull’s got half the Chargers crowded around her main film space in her greenhouse and he keeps trying to say that he’s joining the channel for baking shit but the Chargers keep interrupting.”

“The Iron Bull bakes?”

“Apparently Lavellan can’t be trusted not to turn the pastries into health food.”


	37. Chapter 37

The first report comes during midday, just before noon. The messenger’s horse is covered of a foam of sweat and the messenger herself is no better off. Her eyes are wide and her face is pale. This is not new or uncommon.

But there’s something else.

There's _hope_.

The messenger grasps at Rylen’s hands, “ _It’s Haven._ ”

The report is short and brief, delivered and pieced together through gasps of air and a baffling image that no one can believe.

Earlier, just before dawn, something was seen destroying Corypheus’ forces around the ruins of Haven.

The remains of Haven are a sore point to many for multiple reasons. But the Inquisition and the remaining resistance forces don’t have the time or resources to reclaim it. It holds no strategic purpose, just morale.

Corypheus holds it under watch to show them, to flaunt his victories, to revel in their despair.

And yet -

Something has begun to pry Haven from his grasp.

It isn’t quite believable.

The second messenger comes a little under an hour later as they’re arguing as to what this could mean, as to what is going on.

This messenger had left almost as soon as the first one -

“It’s _her_ ,” He says, pale and shaking, eyes bright with something that isn’t a fever - for once.

 _Her_.

There could be only _one_ thing that’s a _her_ at the ruins of Haven. There was only one _her_ left behind. There was only one _her_ lost.

It is impossible.

Lavellan’s name has long gone down through rumors and legends and myths. Many who have joined the Inquisition know of her through the stories of how she died to save the shambling fragments of the Inquisition.

And yet -

When the forces of Corypheus were decimated, when the area had been cleansed of Red Templars and their forces, it was _her_ who remained.

They had seen. They had watched.

“How do you know it’s her?” Solas asks.

From the ashes and the ruin, a single light of green. And a woman, dark with ash and blood and violence. From the wreckage of what was once a grim reminder of loss, she stood, and she let out a mighty scream that shook the heavens, the mountains, the dead. And with that scream, she unleashed a torrent of green.

There is no mistaking _that specific and particular shade of_ green.

“Look to the sky,” The messenger says. “Do you know anyone else it could have been?”

For the first time in years, they look to the sky.

In the distance over Haven, they see it - almost imperceptible, but clear if you know what to look for.

And they _do_.

The Breach glows, the red and ash of the sky almost smothers it, but they can see it clear as anything. The Breach glows, the green of what was once their only problem.

It glows.

It shines.

And just like it did, years and months and deaths ago -

The Breach lets out one, ear-shaking pulse that washes overtime like a heavy blow of an invisible tide.

And it cracks the red and blighted heavens.

-

“A _reason_?” Lavellan’s voice cracks like heated stone, steam pushing the heavy layers of rock apart, “You want a _reason_ to fight with me? A _reason_ to follow me?”

Lavellan’s dark eyes seem to burn as she stares at Cullen.

Cullen is no longer the man he once was. None of them are.

“You are all under some sort of _misapprehension_ ,” Lavellan says, eyes fixed on Cullen but addressing the motley gathering of the remains of Inquisition leaders and various resistance group leaders. “I do not _need_ you. I do not _care_ if you decide to add your forces to mine or not. With or without your approval and help I _will_ tear Corypheus down from his false throne and I _will_ make him _suffer_. This,” Lavellan’s voice softens, simmers, slides, “Is not a promise. This is not a dream or an aspiration or a goal or any sort of intangible dream. That is the _truth_. I _will_ do it. Whether you are there or not when it happens is your choice.”

Bull traces the side of her face, the side of her body where the Anchor once was - the ruined mess of flesh that her shoulder and upper arm abruptly end in, the black and otherworldly twist of her veins underneath her skin. He believes her. Bull hasn’t believed in much for a while, but when she says that, he believes. He remembers someone else, something else, a long time ago.

It isn’t the same creature. Same bones, different scales.

“I am not going to ask you for anything,” She says, “I will not promise you anything. I will not bribe or bargain or negotiate or otherwise request _anything_. I am simply going to give you all a choice. I am going to give _everyone_ a choice. Fight or submit? Resist or disappear? Live or die? Strive or accept? Reclaim or rot? Struggle or wither?”

Her eyes swallow the air and the space between. They swallow everything.

“Your Maker has turned his back on you,” Lavellan says. Her voice takes a turn for something sweeter, something incongruously more soft and warm, “Your Andraste closes her eyes and ears to you. Your prayers have gone unanswered, your cries unminded, and your suffering unnoticed. The Great Mother and Father and their brood shut themselves away. The Wolf turns his tail to run. You want something to believe in? You want a reason? _I am here_.”

The ruin of Lavellan’s arm slowly raises, and from it a bloom of magical green that swirls like the smoke of the Breach and the Fade, condensing into an arm as she gestures out towards them.

“I, and I alone, stand before you. I, and I alone, will hear you. I, and I alone, have returned for you. Your Maker and Andraste have left you to your fate. The Pantheon and the Wolf remain negligent. The Gods of the Avaar war amongst themselves as petty creatures, consumed with their own squabbles. The spirits of Rivain flee and are scattered like dried and wasted leaves in the wind. The Qun is a hollow promise that moves like a shambling creature towards its own death. You ask for a reason? _The fact that I stand before you is your reason_. You want someone to answer your prayers? You want something, someone, to believe in? You want a miracle? _I will be that_ ,” Lavellan’s spectral fingers curl into a fist, “Corypheus wants to become a god? Fine. Then I will do unto him as has been done unto all gods. I will silence him. I will shackle him. And I will unmake him in my image”

-

“And what are you?” Lavellan’s sharp eyes land on Cole. “You, the boy from Haven - you are different, now. Duller in new ways.”

“You remember,” Cole’s voice is so faint, so low, it might as well be the creaking of wind through the eaves.

Lavellan’s teeth gleam when she corrects him, “I do not forget.”

“Cole is a spirit,” Bull answers, “Solas says he was once Compassion.”

“And now?”

“Apathy,” Bull says.

Cole turns his face away from them, curling on himself in his corner. A gray thing.

Better this than the frantic mess he was before, Bull thinks. Sad as it is.

“And _you_?”

Bull looks back towards Lavellan. “Me?”

Her eyes scan him, reading every line of age and every fight and every moment since the fall of Haven and her supposed death.

“What are _you_?” She asks. “You did not return to your Qun.”

“Not much point, really,” Bull shrugs.

The Qun remains. But it is clear to see that the Qun is on the losing end of the fight. Their numbers dwindle, their forces idle, and their leadership faces constant struggle and doubt. The poison of doubt is killing them faster than the Venatori can.

“You remained _here_ ,” Lavellan says. “You and your Chargers chose to stay.”

“Couldn’t really go anywhere else, Boss,” Bull muses, “So it wasn’t much of a choice.”

“It was,” Lavellan replies, something easing up in her eyes, “Tell me, what do you believe? Why did you choose to stay here, to fight here? You could have returned to the Qun or struck out on your own. Why did you choose the Inquisition?”

Bull doesn’t know how to say that he didn’t want to leave his guys to go back to the Qun. He doesn’t know how to say that when the Qun called for him, he ignored it - by then it was already too late. He was already supporting a large chunk of the Inquisition since Cullen began to falter from withdrawal and the corrupting presence of the Red Lyrium, and the Chargers were quick to pick up the slack of their untrained forces.

He doesn’t know how to say that he kept thinking that the Qun’s efforts and mantras were falling short and crumpling in on themselves even as they continued to try and recruit and expand. He didn’t know how to say that out of all the stupidity and foolishness of every single crown and country fighting amongst themselves like empty headed children, at least the Inquisition had some sense to it left.

Bull doesn’t know how to say that after she was - pretty sensibly - assumed to be dead he didn’t know where to go, where to look, where to turn from there.

He doesn’t know how to say any of those things.

So he doesn’t.

“Standing orders,” Bull says instead.

(“ _Keep them safe, keep them level,_ ” Lavellan turned away from him, “ _Get as many to safety as you can. I’m going back.”_

“ _Got it, Boss,”_ Bull replied, already directing his Chargers to help get civilians towards the Chantry, to clear a path for soldiers and anyone else and to keep it open.

“ _Hold the line_ ,” Lavellan said, “ _Until I’m back.”)_

Lavellan’s pale and death-touched face blooms into a smile. Bull’s gut clenches and his hands jerk.

“Very good,” Lavellan breathes. “You’re still my man, then?”

“Dragons, demons, Venatori, _death_ apparently,” Bull replies. “Which one first, Boss?”

“I’m thinking we start small,” Lavellan answers, “Ease ourselves back into things. Let’s start with the Avaar god in the South. That should be an adequate warm up for the main event.”


	38. Chapter 38

After the next badly recorded and obviously fake roar of the animatronic dinosaur, Bull finds himself seated in front of a woman who looks as obviously embarrassed and confounded as he is to be here.

“Bull,” He says, rattling off the standard information they’re supposed to be giving, “Got in a fight and lost the eye and fingers, I’m not an ex-con, the horns are real, yes I’m a Qunari, yes I’m single, no I really don’t want to be here. Sorry.”

“Lavellan,” The woman replies, “Got into an accident and lost the arm, I’m _related_ to an ex-con, the ears are real, I’m an elf, I’m single, I’m mostly here because my friends are mean but I did stay because free drinks. No offense, but an open bar and I’m no sucker.”

Bull snorts, holding up his own free drink in silent agreement. They clink glasses and drink. “So, you’re here because your friends are mean?”

“They think I spend too much time with my work,” Lavellan replies, “They thought it would be funny. I mean, it _is_ , but mostly I’m mortified.”

“Same,” Bull says, “My coworkers thought it’d be a real riot to set me up for this. Jokes on them, I _never_ say no to a free drink. Where do you work?”

“I’m a zoologist,” Lavellan says, “Well. I’m the reptile expert at the zoo and animal shelter. I mainly take care of snakes and lizards, but that’s mostly on accident.”

Bull raises an eyebrow, they have about three minutes left before the annoying host pulls the tail of the animatronic dinosaur and they have to switch tables again.

“How do you become a caretaker for lizards and snakes by accident?”

“When I was in college I was aiming to take care of birds, but then I accidentally discovered a new species of snake and now I’m supposed to be an expert,” Lavellan says, looking sheepish as she shrugs her shoulders, taking a sip of her brightly colored drink. “I mean, I’m not mad about it. I like it just fine. It’s a bonus that it annoys my parental figure like nothing else.”

“Parental figure?”

“I refuse to claim his as related to me through DNA,” Lavellan tilts her chin up and sniffs, “He’s mad because he’s a wildlife conservationist and his specialty is wolves and he always thought I’d take over after him. Now it’s _snakes_ and he keeps trying to persuade me away from it but it _will not work_.”

“Nice,” Bull laughs, “In it for the spite. I can appreciate that. I’m a detective and I happen to like dragons. Dinosaur speed dating seemed close enough to my coworkers for a joke.”

Lavellan laughs and Bull grins, they clink glasses again and grimace when the host signals them to switch.

Bull looks at the next table on his left and internally grimaces at the man sitting at it. Lavellan, likewise, looks like she’s struggling not to make a face at the man about to come over from the table to Bull’s right.

“Well,” Bull says, “I’ve got my free drink. I don’t think I’m actually required to stay to drink the entire bar after that.”

“I like the way you think,” Lavellan says, “Mind if we leave together? Just in case?”

-

“Hey, here’s your DVD’s,” Cullen opens the door, accepting the plastic bag full of DVD cases Bull holds out to him, “Thanks for letting me borrow them. You’re literally the only person I know who actually buys stuff legitimately.”

“We’re cops,” Cullen replies, “I’m surprised you’re out this early. Why does everyone mock me for waking up early on weekends?”

“Because it’s sad,” Bull says, “I’m actually going out with someone, so I’m not exactly awake on my own volition.”

“Going out?” Cullen raises an eyebrow. Bull’s seemingly endless list of partners isn’t something new, but Bull rarely refers to it as _going out_.

Cullen and Bull jump a little when they hear a horn honking. They turn and look.

An elven woman is leaning out of the window of Bull’s truck, honking the horn as she leans through to the driver’s side.

“ _We’re going to be late_ ,” The woman yells.

“That’s Lavellan,” Bull says waving at her, “We’re going to get brunch. We have to be one of the first ten people to get free drinks.”

“Lavellan?”

“We met at speed dating,” Bull says, clapping Cullen on the shoulder and goes off towards the car.

“You went to _speed dating_?”

“Ask Sera about it,” Bull says, “Lavellan _cool it_ , we’ll make it. Trust me on this. No one fucks with a dude as big as I am willingly. Not over a free mimosa.”

-

“You cannot go to this protest,” Bull says taking things out of Lavellan’s suitcase even as she throws more in.

“Why not?” Lavellan demands, throwing underwear over her shoulder. Bull catches it and tosses it back into a pile of clothes. “Are you going to tell me that I cannot go and support my fellow protesters in their time of need?”

“No,” Bull says, “If you want we can argue that. I fully support you going to protests and demonstrations but this one you can’t go to.”

“Why _not_?” Lavellan demands.

“Because it’s _across the globe_ and it takes place tomorrow; by the time you get there it’d be over,” Bull says, giving up on taking things out one by one and turning the suitcase over and then holding it up over his head as Lavellan attempts to grab for it. “Babe, I really respect that you’ve got the spine and guts to stand up for something you believe in at the threat of violence and damage to your own personal wellbeing, but _it’s not physically possible to go_.”

Lavellan puffs her cheeks out in irritation.

Bull waits, just in case she’s going to make a second go for the suitcase.

“ _Fine_ ,” Lavellan huffs and throws herself onto the bed on top of a pile of clothes, “You’re refolding these clothes.”

“Deal,” Bull puts the suitcase down, “Why don’t you donate money to fund them instead? I mean, more than you usually do.”

“But I wanted to be there,” Lavellan whines, kicking her legs as she squirms underneath the piles of clothes. “I wanted to _go_. Why didn’t I know about this one sooner?”

“Because you’ve been off the grid on a wildlife something something words I can’t exactly remember trip,” Bull says, gathering all the clothes and things Lavellan had been throwing into the suitcase to put back again. “Welcome back, by the way. I promise I didn’t kill any of your plants. The lizards missed you.”

“What about my snakes?”

“They were very mature about it,” Bull says.

“My brave snoots.”

“I missed you, by the way,” Bull says, lifting Lavellan’s legs to pull out stuff from underneath her, “Did you know no one believes you exist?”

“Your friends have met me and my friends,” Lavellan says.

“And yet they do not believe that you’re real. Like some sort of cryptid.”

Lavellan lifts her head to look over her shoulder at him, “We’ve been together for _two years_.”

“And yet not once have we appeared in the same place at the same time,” Bull muses, “Lavellan, your own friends think you’re fucking made up at this point.”

“That’s because they’re _my friends_ ,” Lavellan rolls over onto her back, “That’s what they’re _supposed_ to believe.”


	39. Chapter 39

“You know, you still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Bull says and Lavellan hums as she fiddles with the dial on the radio. “And thus far you’ve only given me really vague directions.”

“I told you I could drive,” Lavellan says.

“Kadan, I love you but I also want to live and you are a shit driver. You were shit before when you had two arms, you’re still just as bad now.”

“Ah, but I know where we’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“You’re going to meet your in-laws.”

It’s very lucky that they’re in the middle of the countryside and they’re the only car on the road, because Bull swears and doesn’t quite swerve but he does hit the brakes a little too hard. It’s habit to throw his arm out across her chest even though she’s braced for it.

Bull turns his head, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t turn this car around right now.”

“Because you love me too much for that,” Lavellan replies, “And I think you’re ready to meet them.”

“It’s been _ten years_ ,” Bull points out. “Five if you only count from when we signed the paperwork.”

“And now you’re ready,” Lavellan says. “Keep driving.”

Bull gives her a _look_ but resumes driving.

“Why isn’t Cole with us?”

“Cole doesn’t like our parental unit’s family,” Lavellan says.

“Lavellan, I barely like Solas based on the _three_ phone conversations we’ve had and the _one_ time we met for five minutes at the hospital when you got into the accident.”

“Oh, than you’ll _loathe_ the rest of them,” Lavellan says, humming when she finds a radio station she’s apparently satisfied enough with to turn to the lowest perceptible sound. “This will really make you appreciate him. That’s really the only reason why I go to our family get togethers every few years. Honestly? It’s the only reason why Solas goes to them, also. We mostly just stare in abject disgust at the rest of the family from one corner while drinking alcohol we hate before barricading ourselves in a guest room until we’re sober enough to leave.”

“Is that the plan?”

“Well, I’m not barricading myself into a guest room with Solas _and_ you. There wouldn’t be enough room for us all to sleep,” Lavellan says.

Bull grimaces.

“So what is the plan? And why are we going?”

“Well for one thing all of my relatives keep trying to set me up with their kids, which is technically legal because all of us are adopted,” Lavellan says. “Solas’ parents adopted him and all of his siblings, all of his sibling’s kids are adopted - except for some of Mythal’s, but they all have different parents -, and there’s a lot of money within the family that they want to keep in house without introducing new contenders.”

Lavellan makes a face.

“My cousins are all gross. _Gross_. So gross. So this year you’re coming to prove once and for all that I’m not getting separated or divorced, because we didn’t go through almost a year and a half of paperwork to get Cole out of the foster system for nothing. Also, you’re going because I want them all to have a heart attack and die early.”

“Nice,” Bull snorts. “It’s only two days, right?”

“Day two involves brunch featuring a truly impressive amount of liquor. So it’s more like one day of introductions and then a blackout followed by a rapid retreat,” Lavellan answers. “You can handle it, former international spy.”

“I’ve been out of the game for years, Kadan,” Bull says, “And your family - based on what you’ve already told me - is fake a shit.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Lavellan says, “But you love me and I love you and combining our love with my spite and your enjoyment of knocking down egotistically pricks down we’ll survive these forty eight hours. To sweeten the pot I’ve planned a series of roadside diversions. We’re going to have lunch at a rest stop that features a possible UFO.”

-

“Admiring the works of art?” Dorian asks Bull who gives him a vaguely annoyed look. “Disappointed I’m not our lovely Lavellan?”

“A bit of column A and column B,” Bull answers, “Stop having the meet up places be in places like this. I stand out too much.”

“Little do they know that you’re a sensitive soul who enjoys art galleries and quiet nights in,” Dorian muses, setting his briefcase on the bench between them as they stare at the series of large paintings on the wall. “Lavellan set the drop location up.”

“And yet it’s you.”

“Which leads me to your mission briefing,” Dorian’s voice takes a slow curl towards the serious and the concerned, “It’s Lavellan. She’s gone quiet.”

“Not unusual,” Bull points out, “Lavellan’s gone off grid before. She did it for an entire year once.”

“I know,” Dorian says, “And it worries us all every time. But here, take this.”

Dorian hands Bull a flash drive.

“Lavellan’s last message to HQ,” Dorian says, “I can’t tell you here. Look at it when you’re alone and secure. It’s worrying. Command is setting up to extract her, or at the very least - _find her_.”

Bull narrows his eye, putting the flash drive into his jacket pocket.

“And this?” He tilts his head towards the briefcase.

“She left that for you,” Dorian says, “Her latest collaboration between Dagna and Sera - that is to say, their latest experiment that she asked them to tailor for you. Lucky man.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Bull says, “Is there an instruction manual?”

“If there is I don’t know, I don’t look at other people’s mail,” Dorian shrugs, crossing his legs. “And just so you know - Solas has reached out to us for this mission.”

Bull’s knuckles crack. “Repeat that.”

“Which is all the more reason why Command is so concerned,” Dorian says, fingers tapping on his knee with rapidly, a nervous tic that he’s never quite been able to lose when it comes to matters of the heart. “Because last we knew Lavellan was working on infiltrating _Solas’_ organization.”

“Next drop?” Bull asks.

“When all the members of this operation have been arranged the next drop will be sent to your secure email,” Dorian replies. “We’re trying to see if we can track down Cole first. It’s proving difficult since he isn’t scheduled to report in for another two weeks and last we knew he was somewhere in the mountains away from all signals.”


	40. Chapter 40

“I'm leaving you!”

Solas winces a little when he hears Lavellan throw open the front door and yell into the house. He’s not sure where this sense of theatrics has come from - he can only assume it’s innate considering that no one he knows and regularly left her with was quite this flamboyant.

He never trusted Mythal with her alone; that would have been a disaster of the most epic proportions to say the least.

Lavellan must pause in the doorway when she doesn’t hear her respond. Solas can just imagine the way she deflates and begins to look for him.

“Are you here? Solas?” Lavellan calls out, a bit unsure.

Solas considers keeping his silence. Either she’ll leave and he can return to his review of this essay he stumbled upon when he was looking for reference material for his paper, or. _Or_.

And this is a very significant _or_.

Or Lavellan will sit in front of the door and wait for him to return.

To this Solas _could_ climb out the window and down the tree to the back yard, make his way around the house - _carefully_ \- and enter through the front claiming he’d gone on a walk to clear his mind.

He could also attempt to wait her out in the study.

Solas sighs and raises his voice, pressing his fingers to his temple, “I’m in the study.”

Lavellan’s feet are silent on the stairs, but she throws the study door open, bursting out, “ _I’m leaving you!_ ”

“So you said,” Solas flips a page in the essay. It’s been so long since he’s read this one, he’s forgotten how fond he was of it. Criticizing it, to be exact, fond of _criticizing it_.

Lavellan impatiently taps her foot in the doorway, hands on her hips. Not the reaction she was hoping for. She should know by now that he won’t indulge her exaggerated behavior by now.

“Solas.”

“Lavellan.”

“Hahren.”

“Da’fen.”

Lavellan lets out a frustrated sigh, “I _said_ I’m leaving you.”

“Do you need help packing?” Solas asks.

“Yes, that would be helpful, I really - _I said I’m leaving you! I’m leaving home!”_

“Did you intend on living in your fathers house for the rest of your life?” Solas asks, “Because that certainly isn’t what I intended when I adopted you. The idea was that you would, eventually, leave and start your own life.”

Lavellan huffs. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“Do you have running water where you’re going?”

“Yes.”

“Electricity?”

“Yes.”

“Sanitary living conditions?”

“Yes.”

“Is it affordable?”

“Sort of - I’m splitting rent.”

“Then I have no further questions. Do you need help with the money?”

In truth, Solas _is_ a little sad to hear it - though he knew, logically, that it must happen.

He can feel Lavellan staring a hole into the side of his head.

“I’ve found a man,” Lavellan declares.

Solas holds up one finger, mentally noting the page and line he’s on before closing the book and   setting it on the side table, putting his reading glasses on top of it.

He then fully turns to her. “You’ve _found_ a man.”

“Yes,” Lavellan tilts her chin up in a move that Solas _knows_ she picked up from Mythal. “He’s a very interesting man, hahren. I believe the two of you could have very stimulating conversations.”

Solas deeply doubts that anyone Lavellan could possibly have met would be capable of a stimulating conversation with him. That isn’t to say that Lavellan, herself, can’t - but she’s his child and by default that means of course she’s capable of stimulating conversation.

The one they’re having right now is stimulating Solas’ mind into, as they say, _overdrive_.

“He was a former soldier and intelligence agent but he quit when he became a foster father and now he’s a - “

“He’s a foster father.”

“Yes, just like you.”

“ _He’s a former soldier and intelligence agent_.”

“Yes, just like you.”

Solas narrows his eyes, “How old is this man?”

“Well, by Qun years he’ s- “

“ _He’s Qun?_ ”

“ _Former_ Qun, hahren,” Lavellan perches on the arm of the couch opposite him. She’s taking some sort of perverse delight in this, he can _sense it_. “And he’s thirty five.”

“Da’fen.”

“Yes, hahren?”

“You’re twenty two.”

“Yes, I’m glad you remember.”

“That is a thirteen year age difference.”

“And you said math isn’t your strongest subject.”

Solas taps his finger on his knee, eyes narrowed at her.

“Are you in a romantic relationship with this man?” He asks. This, too, he knew might eventually happen. It was always a possibility, at least.

“ _Possibly_ ,” Lavellan slowly answers, eyes narrowing - in thought, Solas thinks.

Solas turns this answer over in his head. With Lavellan _possibly_ is an answer of its own.

“Are you in a _sexual_ relationship with this man?”

Lavellan’s face immediately twists into one of her favorite emoticons.

:S

Solas can’t help but be a little relieved. He is the first to admit that he isn’t particularly - well - _involved_ in his da’fen’s life aside from the most basic of things, especially once she got into high school and then college. For the most part, this works for the both of them. Lavellan is highly independent and Solas isn’t very good at being _involved_ in people.

That said, Solas is fairly confident in his understand of Lavellan’s sexuality in that the two of them had a very long series of discussions about it when she was thirteen, fifteen, and later eighteen.

It’s something of a relief to know that as much as the two of them keep private and separate lives, Lavellan hasn’t been keeping this from him.

“Very well,” Solas turns, picking his glasses up and putting them back on. Back to that essay.

“Wait,” Lavellan says, “That’s it?”

“Go and be happy,” Solas says, flipping to the page he was on, “I give you my blessing.”

“I didn’t ask for your blessing.”

“The best gifts, da’fen, are the ones unasked for,” Solas replies and Lavellan lets out a high pitched _hum_ of delight, pushing herself off the arm of the sofa an practically launching herself across the short distance between them. She collides hard with him and Solas feels the breath knocked out of him as she curls her arms around his shoulders and mashes her face against the side of his.

“You’re my _favorite_ hahren,” Lavellan declares.

“I’m your _only_ hahren,” Solas points out, “Tell me, is it because he’s going to allow you to adopt a dog?”

“Joke’s on you, he already _has_ a dog,” Lavellan announces. “I’m going to start packing. As an aside? That essay is terrible by the way and there’s a reason you hid it behind the other books in the first place. You know it’s just going to make you rant later.”

“Ah, but for now I’m enjoying the inane blathering of it,” Solas waves her off, “We’ll go pick up boxes tomorrow. Check the garden. I’ll be down in an hour to prepare lunch.”


	41. Chapter 41

“I absolutely loathe how much you know you know you’re in control of this situation,” Dorian muses, reaching down to pet at Lavellan’s soft head, “You’re enjoying every moment of this, you little diva. It’s as if you get into this situations on purpose.”

Lavellan curls up against his hand, eyes closing in pleasure as she knocks her head against his fingers, purring contentedly.

The Chargers arrived with Lavellan - newly turned into a cat - about two days ago, stating that she’d accidentally activated some sort of artifact. It was quite the surprise when they arrived about three days early _without_ the Inquisitor. It was more of a surprise when the Iron Bull held out a meowing cat to Cassandra like some sort of shield.

“You’re giving me a fright you know,” Dorian says, bending down to pick her up and put her in his lap. “I’m concerned that the longer you’re like this, the more cat like you’ll become.”

Earlier today Sera claims she saw Lavellan chasing mice around the tavern. Lavellan does this as a normal woman, regardless - but still. Dorian understands.

It took four people to coax her down from a tree yesterday.

Lavellan purrs in his lap, happy with the attention.

“I miss you, you know,” Dorian continues, “You know that no one here can keep up with me quite as well as you can. Lavellan, you really need to stop getting yourself into these situations.”

“I’m flattered that you named your cat after me,” Dorian startles, head jerking up to stare at the archway of his alcove, “But that may get a tad bit confusing if the two of us are in the same room. Cat, we are going to have to settle terms. I’m willing to be Lavellan two if you’re willing to meet nobles for me. Do we have an arrangement?”

“You!” Dorian exclaims, hands stopping over the cat that lets out an unhappy _purrup_ before repeatedly hitting her head against his palm until he starts stroking her again. “You’re supposed to be a cat!”

Lavellan blinks slightly watery eyes at him, “No. I mean - possibly, but I wouldn’t know about that.”

“ _You’re supposed to be this cat!_ ” Dorian exclaims, jerking his chin down at the cat in his lap for emphasis.

“If you say so,” Lavellan gives him a slightly concerned look, “How long have you been in here, Dorian? Do we need to have another talk about mental breaks?”

“No! I - _The Iron Bull said you were turned into a cat_.”

“And you _believed_ him?” Lavellan’s eyebrows raise, “I thought you two didn’t like each other.” She smiles, “You two are finally getting along! I’m so proud of you two.”

“No - that’s not what - _In hindsight -_ “ Dorian stammers, “Solas corroborated!”

Lavellan blinks, “You’re getting along with Solas now, too? Maybe my fever hasn’t quite gone down, after all.”

She starts looking around, touching the shelves and walls, “This can’t be a fever dream. I’m fairly certain Cole would let me know if this is a fever dream.”

“Fever dream?” Dorian repeats, dumbly.

“I got a cold on the way back from the Mire,” Lavellan says, knocking her knuckles against the wall as she tries to figure out if this is a dream or not. “I didn’t want anyone fussing over me - I could just sleep it off - so I asked Bull to make an excuse for me and went to my room. I woke up a few hours ago feeling better than ever and I came down to find you because I wanted some of your incense to help with my stuffed nose.”

Dorian sits back in his chair. The cat - who is apparently _not_ Lavellan - gets fed up with having to constantly prompt Dorian for affection, springs off of his lap and goes up to Lavellan to wind herself through and around the woman’s legs.

Lavellan bends down and picks the cat up, giving her the requisite affection she was looking for.

“Solas _confirmed_. He ran _tests_ ,” Dorian says, dumbfounded.

“I always told you all, hahren has a very distinct sense of humor,” Lavellan replies, “And yet none of you believe me.”

-

“At the moment,” Lavellan begins, “It _seemed_ like a good plan; obviously, it was _not_.”

“You crashed three cars in front of a nursing home, what part of this could have been a plan?” Cullen asks.

“One, don’t use that tone of voice on me,” Lavellan says, “Two, the nursing home is coincidental and has nothing to do with this. It could have been a tattoo parlor, a barber shop, a vegetable stand, a used car dealership, a - “

“ _Get on with it, Lavellan_ ,” Cassandra puts her hands on her hips, not looking away from watching the clean up crew attempt to pry three cars apart. It’s a large miracle that somehow _no one was injured_.

“Three, we got the guy.”

“How you got the guy is still questionable,” Sera says, “Ten out of ten on the pyrotechnics, though.”

“This will not hold up in court,” Leliana says, “But I do admire the creativity. That’s on record.”

Cullen groans, turning to watch with Cassandra as something lets out a belch of smoke.

Harding empties a water bottle onto it and gives them a thumbs up.

Lavellan waves.

“I don’t know how this always happens to you,” Cullen says, “Why does this always happen to you?”

“Hey, boss?”

They all turn and the Iron Bull waves at them, climbing out of his SUV. It’s hilarious. It looks like he’s coming out of a clown car.

“Hi,” Lavellan waves.

“We got your guy, ran just like you said,” Bull says, “We have him in the trunk.”

Cullen lets out a sound similar to a death rattle.

  
Cassandra’s jaw has a tangible presence of its own.

“See, Bull appreciates me,” Lavellan says. “He’s a good person. He’s _my_ good person. Have I told you that you’re my person, lately? Because you are. My person, I mean. You are my person.”

“Thanks, babe,” Bull says, “Anyway, we have a drugged up possible magic abuse user in the back of my car and I just got the carpets cleaned. Suggestions on what to do with him?”

Everyone turns to look at Lavellan who blinks at all of them and then holds up her hands.

“You didn’t actually think about what you wanted to do with him once you caught him, did you?” Leliana asks.

“The bounty says _catch_ him,” Lavellan points out, “I’ve caught him. Whatever else - I don’t know. It wasn’t part of the advert. Also - Bull, did you get the new car freshener like I asked you to? No offense to Rocky, but the smell of his experiments makes me sneeze and I can’t stand it anymore.”


	42. Chapter 42

“You look like an open autopsy,” Dorian says, “And that mean something because I _do_ autopsies.”

“Someone forgot to start with a Y incision,” Varric says, “They just couldn’t wait to get into you, could they, Tiny?”

“Thanks,” Bull says, reaching over and running his hand through Cole’s hair. Cole squeezes his eyes shut and wrinkles his nose but otherwise doesn’t do anything, fingers pausing as he winds and unwinds a stray bit of string from the edge of his jacket. “You should see the other guy.”

“Are you going to get medical attention for that?” Dorian asks as Bull walks past him.

“Eventually, gonna report in first.”

“Careful, the big boss is in a mood,” Varric says.

Bull waves a hand and jogs down the stairs into the depths of the Inquisition base, plastic bag rustling over his arm as he does his best to squeeze himself towards the side to let others pass him.

Varric’s right, the Boss _is_ in a mood. He can hear her and Rutherford yelling at each other from the hallway. There’s an echo.

Bull doesn’t bother knocking as he pushes the door open.

Lavellan is hitting the table with her palms, kicking her legs underneath the desk, “Sunshine! Grass! Wind in my hair! Dirt between my toes! _Cullen!_ ”

“It isn’t safe,” Cullen chides her, “You know that. When our position is secure and we’ve set up the appropriate - “

“ _I’m dying_ ,” Lavellan throws her upper body over the table, palms slapping against the paperwork, “Look at me! I’m getting jaundice!”

“You aren’t getting jaundice, Lavellan.”

“Just because we’re the underground doesn’t mean we _actually have to be under the ground!_ ” Lavellan whines, not looking at him when she says, “Bull! Tell him!”

“I’m not getting into that one, Boss,” Bull says, “Got you a present, though.”

He pulls a bright red candy apple out of the bag and hands it to her.

Lavellan perks up, beaming at him and moves to take it.

Cullen takes it instead, “ _No_.”

Lavellan lets out a loud groan and slumps back over the table, “ _Cullen_.”

“She’s an adult,” Leliana plucks the apple from Cullen’s hand and hands it to Lavellan, “She pulls vegetables out of the literal ground and eats them raw, muddy, and possibly pest ridden, Cullen. I don’t think we have to worry about her spoiling her dinner and a possible vitamin imbalance.”

“You say this because you aren’t the one who’s going to have to deal with her bouncing around later,” Cullen says, but makes no move to retrieve the apple from her as she begins to unwrap it from its plastic.

Bull pulls out a box of chocolates and offers them to Josephine, “‘Fraid I got nothing for you this time, Montilyet. Runner up prize.”

Josephine gives him a warm smile, “You don’t have to get me something every time, Bull.”

“I’d feel bad. S’manners and shit. They drill them into you hard in the Qun,” Bull says. He turns to Leliana and nods, “Spymaster.”

“Bull,” Leliana’s eyes sparkle as she nods back, “What do you have for us?”

Bull approaches one of the other tables, as Cullen and Leliana break off from Lavellan’s desk to join him. He hands Leliana a phone and searches for one of their maps in the neatly organized stack.

“We found one of their ops,” Bull says, “Working out of the back of a candy store. We broke in when they weren’t around - absolute shit security, so I don't think they knew we’d gotten around to figuring out this particular ring. We took pictures of their set up, did a little poking around.”

“Your presence remains unnoticed?” Cullen asks when Bull pulls out the right map and spreads it out, running his finger along the lines until he finds the store’s location.

“Didn’t know if you guys wanted us to bust them or not, so we left it as is. I figure that maybe they'll go back and we can either catch them or find some bigger fish through them,” Bull says. “Your call, Sera’s got her Jennies scoping the area out to find any leads.”

“Very good,” Leliana says, “We’ll wait for Sera’s report to make our final decision. In the mean time - nothing for me?”

Bull holds his hands up, “Empty out.”

“Speaking of empty - “ Cullen says, “Go get some medical attention before you bleed out entirely. How are you still standing?”

“Force of will and the knowledge that if I pass out before delivering the goods the Boss might cry,” Bull replies.

“Don’t be silly, Bull,” Lavellan calls out, “You _are_ the goods.”

-

“Don’t worry, the blood is inside,” Lavellan says, blinking rapidly as she staggers towards the cars, “That’s like - where it’s supposed to be. Probably.”

“ _Probably_?” Dorian’s voice kicks up a few octaves as he squeezes her arm. He does his best not to jostle her as he tries to secure his hold on her but she winces and Dorian figures he probably doesn’t do a very good job. “Try _definitely_.”

“Sure, yeah,” Lavellan says, “Point is we did good today. We did so much good.”

Dorian’s heart pounds in his chest.

He can hear the police sirens.

They can’t get caught _here_. They absolutely cannot be caught here.

“Just a little more,” Dorian says, “Just a little more, come on.”

Lavellan sucks in a breath and starts to hobble faster like a champion.

“Bull is going to kill me,” Dorian says.

“Why?”

“He said keep you safe and I’m bringing you back to base looking like you got run over by a train.”

“Well, if you think about it. I kind of _was_ run over by a train.”

Dorian grimaces.

“More like you hit the train, but semantics,” Dorian says. “Either way…”

“You’re fine. Bull likes you,” Lavellan says.

“And now I’m worried about just how badly you hit your head - before I was more worried about the general vicinity of your ribs and lungs, but now I’m extremely concerned about your head.”

“No, he does, really. He wouldn’t have trusted you with me if he didn’t, you know.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. As if you were his to trust to anyone.”

Lavellan lets out a wheezing sound that Dorian realizes is a laugh. “I give enough of me to him to let him trust that part to someone else for a little while. I trust you with parts of me, too, you know.”

“That’s touching, really, but at the moment it makes me think of you trusting me with - say - part of your liver, and I’m terrified because you might actually start spilling out internal organs.”

“ _Internal_ bleeding, I said.”

“Still bad news, I’m a _doctor_ , remember?”

“Ah, a doctor of _physics_ , you didn’t get a chance to finish medical school.”

“I’m _working_ on it. You know how many hours working with the Inquisition would count as if it weren’t all hush-hush? I’d have graduated with residency by now!”


	43. Chapter 43

“I know you, _Wolf_ ,” Solas does not freeze. Freezing would be an admission. Instead he looks up and meets Lavellan’s eyes.

She is a strong woman. A clever woman. A proud woman. A dangerous woman.

Solas has been four out of five of these things before. That particular combination does not go well together. It can be worn beautifully, for a time, but inevitably it will bring ruin onto itself.

“Pardon?”

Lavellan raises a thin brow, crossing her legs as she leans back on her perch. He recognizes her too well, too much; from the way she sits on the low stone wall that rises next to the hut he’s claimed as his own to the way her face moves, she is too familiar.

He wonders if this is youth or history at work. Perhaps it is both.

“I said, I know you,” Lavellan repeats slowly in the strange and half-recognizable puzzle of elven that the elves of the Dales have cobbled together out of remnants long past.

For all that their basic premises are wrong, Solas admits that he admires the tenacity with which they have built upon the bones of the old and made it their own.

“I know not what your faction is really called,” Lavellan says, “But I have learned to recognize their members. Your group has many would-be-spies among my people. Those spies and saboteurs have worked their way into my court to try and directly influence me no less than four times, I believe. I did not realize the Wolf’s people were working among the other powers of Thedas as well. Are you here to observe, or to shape? Both?”

“I do not know of what you mean.”

Lavellan’s gaze turns amused, a cat with a mouse between its young and violently playful paws. After a moment of examination, she appears to let him off the proverbial hook, turning her eyes onto the Breach itself.

“I recognize, too, this magic,” Lavellan says. “I would not say so in front of the shemlen - I barely escaped with my head attached. Is the mark of magic here not familiar, hahren?”

“You, Lavellan - leader of the Dales and Emerald Knights, most holy and exalted to the Free Elves - would refer to me as a hahren?”

“Why not?” Lavellan asks, still looking at the Breach. “You posses a certain level of knowledge and experience that I do not, you were able to heal me when no other could, and you guided me in sealing the rifts.”

“Knowledge you could have intuited on your own, given enough time to exercise that power,” Solas points out.

Lavellan laughs, “What a luxury! Time. You know this magic, do you not, hahren?”

She turns and looks at him, dark eyes dancing - the echo of his memory is so painful. It is like looking into a tarnished mirror.

“Yes,” He admits.

“Our secret, for now, agreed?” She says.

Solas dips his head down in agreement. This, at least, is something he finds reasonable.

-

“Is there a problem?” Lavellan doesn’t even give the poor herald a look as she takes her place at the door.

Leliana can’t help be just the smallest bit amused.

She imagines that it isn’t every day that one must announce the Commander of the Dales to the Empire of Orlais.

“No, Madame.”

Lavellan looks over then, “Madame?”

Her eyebrow slowly raises. For all that Lavellan is stubborn and refuses to give an inch, Leliana admits - she plays the game _beautifully_. It is a pleasure to watch.

It is always beautiful to watch a master at their craft - a master painter, a singer, a dancer, an orator.

Leliana imagines the sour face the man must make underneath his mask when he is forced to say the words.

“Most _holy_.”

Lavellan’s eyes slowly flutter, a satisfied beast, before turning forward again. Her voice lowers, crouches, _slithers_.

“You will announce me in full. I will know if you leave anything out. _I will return_.”

And she walks.

Perhaps, Leliana thinks as she follows the woman into the now silent grand ballroom, they were wrong in thinking they had to restrain Lavellan. Perhaps, what the Orlesian court needs is not another player, but a new game master.

If they will not cooperate with each other and unify to fight the obvious threat of their own free will, perhaps they will cooperate when forced to by a stronger one.

As Solas would put it, an _indomitable_ one.

What happens when the immovable object of the Orlesian habit is met with the unstoppable force of the reigning power of the Dales?

Based on previous encounters between the two nations, Leliana knows where to put her money. And her life.

Lavellan sweeps into the ballroom with all the grace of a serpent among frozen mice, a wyvern return to the water, and a dragon gliding through the sky.

“Any bets as to how this goes?” Leliana asks Josephine, softly.

“Well,” Josephine answers, sounding reluctantly impressed.

The Inquisition’s reputation will only become more controversial after this, but Leliana imagines that it would be worth it.

“Celene,” Lavelan’s voice softly echoes out through the silent room.

(“I will not bow to someone who is my equal, and debatably my inferior,” Lavellan says, peacefully watching the scenery through the carriage window. “If she likes, she may bow. But if she wants me to lower my head to her she will have to dream it.”)

“Greetings neighbor,” Lavellan continues, unperturbed as she rises right back up the stairs, walking past dumbfounded nobles and guards a like to stand directly in front of the Empress of Orlais.

Compared to the washed out woman in blue and gold, Lavellan in her well trimmed furs and silk looks like an undeniable pillar of power.

Lavellan stands close to Celene, teeth bared, arms behind her back. Lavellan leans in, “I believe our meeting is long overdue. And where is the ever charming Briala?”

“Most holy,” Lavellan doesn’t turn even as Briala steps out of the crowd, “Thank you for coming.”

Lavellan leans away from Celene but doesn’t look away even as she leans on the railing. “Thank you for bringing my attention to this little fete, Briala. Such a lovely diversion. I look forward to watching how this all plays out. Drinks?”

-

“Ambassador,” Lavellan nods, passing by the straight backed templars with the sort of impunity Josephine can only imagine comes from knowledge and power beyond years. Most mages would at least give the templars a second glance.

Lavellan, most holy of the Dalish, is not most mages.

“Your Majesty,” Josephine moves to stand but Lavellan waves her hand.

“We are going to be working together for some time, Ambassador. I am going to have to insist that certain formalities be waved. Lavellan is fine, may I?”

“Of course,” Josephine turns her open hand towards a seat, “I am afraid that my offices are not quite as pleasing as most embassies would be.”

“Lack of comfort can be made up for with good and reasonable company,” Lavellan replies. She does not seem quite as intimidating as the others would describe her, Josephine admits. “I have heard of your talents, Lady Montilyet. My ambassadors speak highly of you, though I admit a certain level of disappointment that our meeting was not from you coming for a visit. Antiva is such a good friend of the Dales.”

“We appreciate all that you do for us,” Josephine says, “Does our current ambassador not suit your tastes?”

“Not at all,” Lavellan laughs, “She does quite well - as well as anyone does, I suppose. Rest assured, Lady Montilyet. Antiva is ever in our good graces; though the proposals for marriage remain - as ever, charming, at best.”

“I admit, they are mostly a jest at this point,” Josephine says.

“I should hope so,” Lavellan muses, resting her head on her fist as she smiles at Josephine, “Do you think you would ever visit me - or would you ever have visited me?”

“Perhaps, I do want to travel,” Josephine answers, “Presuming that we survive this.”

“You would be most welcome. We are so fond of our ambassadors. We have so few, you know,” Lavellan laughs. “We treasure them.”

“The Qun is one of the few, yes?” Josephine asks. She can’t help but be curious. “If you don’t mind me asking - how does that work?”

Lavellan hums, “Well. Surprisingly. The Qun and I, specifically, have a very delicate understanding. We respect each other. Neither of us like Tevinter, and while we do not like each other’s ideas so much, we can respect each other’s history and power enough to stay away. The Qun dislikes our religion and magic, but appreciates that we keep to our word and our borders. We, in turn, scorn their disregard for the spirit of the world and military vigilance, but we agree in the threat of magic unwatched. And we both have similar cultural choices - the raising of our children for certain roles, the organization of our military and division of governing branches.”

“But the Qun and your kingdom have only begun the exchange of ambassadors recently,” Josephine says, “These similarities have long existed past then.”

Lavellan hums, “As I said, the Qun and _I_ have made certain arrangements.”

“You’ve gone to Par Vollen?”

“No,” Lavellan raises an eyebrow, “At the time I could not leave the borders of the Dales. I requested that Par Vollen come to _me_. We made our arrangement then and have been polite allies ever since.”

Josephine is fully aware of the very dangerous thread of knowledge that’s been hung before her.

“Then it is true?” Josephine asks. “The Qun assisted in your coup?”

Lavellan laughs, everything the rumors have ever said she was, “It was no coup, Ambassador. That would imply a certain type of force that simply was not used. In any case, the two of us are happy with our little arrangement. The Qun fights Tevinter from the outside, we fight it from within.”

“From within?”

Lavellan winks, “Games are not only for Orlesians, Ambassador. When this is over come stay with me for a time. You could pick up a few tricks.”


	44. Chapter 44

Overtime, Lavellan has come to know her regulars.

There’s Sera, who will never order anything on the menu - who first did it as a joke, and now does it out of tradition. When Sera _does_ order on the menu it means something is wrong and Lavellan should surprise her on the side and generally expect the un-expectable.

There is, of course, Cullen, who at first would always examine the menu board and end up ordering the most simple thing - a regular black coffee. Now, Lavellan knows to just get a black coffee and she also know that Cullen is a little embarrassed by how simple his tastes are, especially when there is so much to choose from. It’s charming. Sometimes he’ll bring in one of his dogs - of which, she has learned, he has three.

Varric orders bulk, usually to go, and appreciates having extra of everything on the side because his companions never really _know_ what they want. Lavellan has yet to meet any of the people he orders for, but he assures her - in between phone calls - that they love her drinks and that’s why they always insist he drive from wherever he is to her. Lavellan appreciates this too.

Dorian and Vivienne come in and will spend hours sitting at a table and politely arguing with each other. Sometimes they call Lavellan over to settle debates, usually Lavellan just goes over to refill their drinks. On the house.

They tip too generously for her _not_ to do that. She’s tried telling them to stop tipping so heavily. They make _charitable donations_ instead.

The two come in without the other, of course - Dorian more so and will hang around the counter when it isn’t busy to chat. Over the years, Dorian has become a close friend and regular. It’s gotten to the point where he’ll sometimes go behind the counter to help her if it’s incredibly busy, or if he feels like experimenting. Lavellan doesn’t mind. He always drinks his disasters.

Blackwall is a lot like Cullen in that he’s very simple in his order, but he isn’t embarrassed about it. He’ll come up straight to the counter and order his black coffee and toasted bagel without hesitation or a single thought of something new. (That’s why Lavellan always changes the bagel type. He likes it, it’s their own little game.)

Cassandra is like Cullen in that she gets embarrassed about her order, but unlike Cullen it’s because she thinks the drinks she orders are inappropriate for someone of her - well, _persona_. Cassandra likes to try everything new and sweet and Lavellan thinks that Cassandra shouldn’t be embarrassed about that at all. Still - Lavellan always calls out _one regular black for Cassandra_ whenever she’s finished making a mint mocha or an iced strawberry cream - always in the same nondescript paper and cardboard with Cassandra’s name written on the side, so no one can tell what it really is.

Cassandra always gives her the smallest smile for that.

Cole will rarely order anything, just sit and stare at her plants and rocks or the ceiling listening to the music. At first this made Lavellan nervous, but over time she’s come to understand that he just likes the atmosphere here. Lavellan likes it too, that’s why she made this place, after all.

She gives him drinks for free. He holds them until they go cold - or hot, as it were - , but he always smiles. As long as he’s happy. And she likes to think that he is.

The Iron Bull and his friends are her favorite, though. Is that mean? To have a favorite group of customers? It probably is, but Lavellan can’t quite help it.

They’re a rowdy and friendly bunch. Whenever they come in it’s like they drag in the sun with them - no, not drag. It’s more like the sun dances in with them. Yes. Lavellan likes that word. _Dances_.

The door will swing open and laughter and smiles bubble in through, and then she’s got a counter full of familiar faces asking how she is and making good natured jokes and she’s tallying up orders that she knows by heart and the Iron Bull will say over it all - _tip heavy, boys. Hey, Boss, you charge this one over here double for me, would you?_

Lavellan doesn’t charge double, but they do tip heavy.

They sprawl out over chairs and tables and sometimes they’ll be there for five minutes sometimes for five hours. Once or twice they’ve come in before closing and attempted to hurry out so she could close but Lavellan’s doors are never closed for them.

She doesn’t mind. This place - if it feels safe, if it feels warm, then that’s what Lavellan’s been trying to do all along. She isn’t going to turn anyone out.

The Iron Bull leans on the counter. And sometimes his group scares other people who aren’t quite as familiar with Lavellan’s regulars, but in time everyone learns each other.

Lavellan leans forward, smiling back at him as everyone settles around the tables and chairs - Cole’s smile grows just a little as Rocky and Krem bounce onto the sofa on either side of him, crushing him between them.

Sera throws a piece of scone at Krem that he catches directly into his mouth causing everyone to burst out into laughter and start high fiving.

Dorian and Vivienne roll their eyes but make room along the high tables and chairs for Stitches and Dalish to join in, easily turning their conversation outwards to them.

Cullen nods at Grim and the two settle into easy silence while Blackwall pets Cullen’s dog. Cassandra nods at them and passes, - cardboard drink holder balanced in her hand as she moves to hold the door open for Varric who comes in giving her a smile that she pretends to ignore as he shoves his phone into his pocket.

Cassandra joins Josephine and Leliana, the two take up their drinks with wide smiles and wave at Lavellan from outside - Lavellan and Bull both wave back as the three women walk off down the street.

“Full house, Boss?” Bull asks handing her his credit card as she enters orders.

“The best kind,” Lavellan answers, “Welcome back.”


	45. Chapter 45

“You _forgot?_ ” Dorian exclaims, “Lavellan it’s your own _anniversary_ , how could you _forget_? You know the city where I was _born_. I don’t even know where I was born, you know the doctor who delivered me by _name_. And you forgot your _anniversary_?”

“In my defense,” Lavellan sounds out of breath on the other end, “I’ve been very, _very_ busy.”

“I can’t believe this. You asked me to plan this thing out for you _a year and a half ago_.”

“Dorian, I am currently _on the run for my life_.”

“That’s what you get when you take an assignment _on your tenth wedding anniversary_. What do I tell the Bull _now_?”

“I don’t know!”

Dorian stares at the venue he’s had set up overlooking the beach of the Storm Coast. It’s one of the few days where it isn’t raining and it’s actually pleasant. Dorian can stand to look at the water without getting seasick.

Literally _everything_ is here - the guests, all of their friends, the food, the decorations, the fucking weather -

 _Except Lavellan_.

“Bull!” Lavellan exclaims.

“ _Yes_ , Bull! As in the man you’re married to and expected to be here with. Bull who is probably on his way over right now thinking you’re already here. Bull who - “

“ _Bull leave it behind! Leave it! Leave it!”_

Dorian stares into the sun and thinks he feels something in him crack.

“Don’t you dare tell me - “

“I don’t know what you’re going to tell Bull that you aren’t going to tell me,” Lavellan says, and then there’s a brief moment of static as she does something presumably dangerous and impossible outside of fiction, “Considering he’s with me. I feel that it’s incredibly unfair that you’re lecturing me as if I’m the only person in the wrong here. I mean, clearly _he forgot too_.”

“You _both_ went on assignment on your ten year anniversary _together_ and _forgot?”_

“Apparently yes,” Lavellan says, “ _Bull, as an aside, I’m sorry we both forgot our anniversary. I promise to say something about it later._ ”

Dorian hears a vague grunt of acknowledgement in the background and then Lavellan lets out a small _moop_ and then there’s the sound of two people breathing.

A door opens and slams shut. A car engine revs.

“Pavus,” Bull says a few moments of Dorian mentally spiraling down a drain later. He doesn’t even sound out of breath.

The man is pushing fifty at least and he’s still doing this absurd bullshit.

“Bull.”

“I want to say that I also forgot the anniversary,” Bull says, “Because Lavellan is glaring at me because I guess I was supposed to remind her. Point is, every day is important and I lost track of how much time we spent together. Sorry, Kadan.”

“Just because every day with you is lovely to the point where I lose track of time doesn’t mean you’re getting away with it!” Lavellan says, “Now you’ve gone and made Dorian cross with me.”

“Sorry, Pavus.”

“I am charging all of the expenses to you,” Dorian says. “At first I was only going to do half because this was my present to you both for surviving each other for so long. Now as a present to myself I’m charging you both plus a service fee. This is _my_ present to _myself_ for putting up with the both of you for so long without killing either of you.”

“Love you,” Lavellan says.

“I love you too,” Dorian replies, “Don’t die. I’m rescheduling this but right now everyone here is going to eat all of this food and enjoy this perfect venue I set up for you two ungrateful lovebirds and celebrate not having you around.”

-

“Why are we at a fair?” Sera asks, “And why are Dalish and Lavellan crying while eating cotton candy?”

“They just found out that they aren’t related,” Krem says, offering Sera a corn dog. She takes it, and bumps it with his as they watch the two women crying over bright pink and blue bags of sugar. “They got the results earlier and haven’t been the same since. The Chief thought maybe it’d cheer them up if they went somewhere with bright lights and sugar and grass.”

“Sensory overload and a sugar crash.”

“Hey, don’t judge. It’s going well so far. They couldn’t even sit up on their own earlier. Look at them. Eating with their mouths and everything.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Yeah, well. That’s them.” Krem says. “Did you come here with Dagna?”

“Yeah,” Sera says, “She’s off conning some booth out of, like, all their prizes or something. Sera gestures to a giant plastic bag by some tables. “I’m watching the rest of it. I don't even know what we’re going to do with all of it. I guess charity. Dunno. Can we borrow some of your truck to carry it in?”

“Sure,” Krem says. “Might have some trouble fitting it though because the Chief and Skinner are doing the same thing.”

Krem points in the direction of some shooting galleries.

“Sensory overload, sugar crash, giant animals,” Sera says.

Krem gives her a thumbs up, “Also deep fried nonsense.”

-

“This is the worst family trip ever,” Lavellan declares, sitting down on a plastic recliner chair, pushing at Sera until she makes room. “They just read the last will.”

“And?” Sera flicks up her sunglasses.

“And he left me everything,” Lavellan says, “What an asshole.”

“Told you,” Sera drops her sunglasses back in place. “Now you’re a rich prick.”

“I don’t want to be,” Lavellan whines, picking at a tray of french fries. Sera smacks her arm.

“Not yours.”

“Come on! I just found out that not only is my adopted father dead - probably, or faking - but he’s also left me all of his money, worldly possessions, and _problems_.”

“You’re rich now, go buy your own fries,” Sera teases. “Right Varric?”

Varric holds up his hands from the next sun chair over, “I am not part of this. I am here for emotional support and to make sure that Hawke and Isabella don’t get thrown overboard.”

“How’s that going?” Lavellan asks.

“We had a few close calls but the situation was salvageable and there were no witnesses.”

“Nice,” Sera and Lavellan says.

“Hey, Boss,” Lavellan glances up and sees Bull crossing the deck, waving at her, “How’d it go?”

“How are Dorian and Cullen?”

“Greener than Dalish’s pretty, pretty eyes,” Bull replies, “Josephine and Cassandra are ready to just pitch them overboard or smother them to be done with it. How did the will go?”

“Terrible.”

“What, he cut you off and lecture you via video tape or something?”

“No! Worse! _He left me everything!_ ” Lavellan says, throwing herself backwards onto Sera. Sera grunts, pushing at Lavellan. Lavellan puts her arm over her eyes. “I don’t want Solas’ _bullshit!_ ”

Bull sits down on the sun chair on Sera’s right, “Well, you could always just use that to piss him off. Like use his money to fund shit you know he hated or something.”

“I like that,” Sera says, “Spite from beyond the grave countered spite for things in the grave.”

Lavellan sighs and sits up, frowning.

Bull holds out a container of fries.

Lavellan smiles, “You know me so well.”

“Nah, Fenris texted me.”

Lavellan twists around and waves at Fenris two chairs over, “I knew you had a soft spot for me.”

Fenris rolls over, “Payment for the opportunity to see Hawke and Isabella almost plunge to their certain deaths.”


	46. Chapter 46

“So, you’re - tied to a cage,” Lavellan turns towards Solas as if he could affirm for her that there is, indeed, a very large, horned man tied to a cage at the outskirts of Lothering. “I’m - you couldn’t fit _into_ the cage, could you?”

Solas ignores them both and scans the area for Cassandra. It shouldn’t be taking the woman _this long._ Blackwall has been waiting for them towards the outskirts of Lothering for at least half an hour by now. Solas is mildly surprised by the man’s patience, or perhaps restraint, in not coming back and dragging them all off by the scruffs of their necks.

“Well, no,” The man replies, sounding as amused as one probably should be in this situation. He’s taking it gracefully, apparently. “It wasn’t really build with something like me in mind.”

“He’s Qunari, Lavellan,” Solas says before she can begin her interrogation of the poor man. He’s already been tied to a cage - no need to submit him to Lavellan’s brand of questioning as well.

“Well, why are  you tied to the cage?” Lavellan asks, “Couldn’t you just - break the rope?”

The man shrugs, “Honestly? My guys are coming around in a few days to spring me anyway. I figure why not go along with it? I’ve got a bucket to piss in and a bucket to drink from. They’re separate buckets. Don’t give me that look.”

“Oh,” Lavellan looks around, “But _why_?”

The man grunts, raising one shoulder as he leans against the cage, “They got pissed because of the Darkspawn and shit. Blamed the nearest foreigner. I’m not mad about it. I figure - might as well let them tie me up for a while rather than have them cause trouble for my boys.”

Solas turns and catches Lavellan’s look just in time, “ _No_.”

Lavellan’s eyes snap to him, sparkling with _ideas_. Solas deeply regrets not staying in the woods. As irritating as it was to be bothered by random and foolish travelers, it would probably be less of a headache than Lavellan’s brand of _heroism_.

“I’m stealing the Qunari,” Lavellan says.

“ _What_?”

All three of them look up in time to see Cassandra, in all of her authoritative fury.

“I’m stealing the Qunari,” Lavellan repeats, drawing her knife and moving towards the rope.

The man holds his hands out of her reach.

Lavellan gestures for him to give her his hands, “If you’re worried about your friends, you could leave them a note. I mean - a Dalish elf, a moody elf, and a Seeker of Truth, plus a Gray Warden walking about Ferelden? We’re hard to miss. Also I have a deer. I love him. He kisses me when I feel lonely.”

The man looks over her head at Solas as if _he_ could affirm that there is, indeed, a young Dalish woman with a knife trying to break him out of a fake prison.

Solas pointedly looks at Cassandra.

This is not his show.

It’s not quite Cassandra’s, either; no one’s sure _who’s_ it is, yet, but Cassandra, of the four of them - Blackwall included - has the most authority.

“You are not _stealing_ a Qunari,” Cassandra says.

“Fine,” Lavellan says, putting her dagger away, “Who’s in charge of Lothering? Cassandra, use your - your important person status to get them to hand him over to us. He’s tied to a cage and he has _buckets_. I will not stand for this.”

Lavellan immediately drops to the ground. “I am sitting here until this man is untied or his rope is in my hands so I can untie it myself. I _insist_.”

-

“I need to come South to visit Orzammar more often,” Varric muses as Lavellan examines a rock formation that she claims looks like a fox. “This shit is too good to miss. I mean, top side it’s crazy as all hell, but you guys are making it work.”

“Thanks,” Bull says, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s had to squeeze through too many tight tunnels today for his comfort.  “Nice work with the crossbow. Underground and close quarter fights are admittedly not my thing.”

“And yet here you are anyway,” Varric points out as Lavellan and Dorian begin to bicker over the rocks, Cole watching them curiously from the side as they point and wave their arms. “Lively bunch for a group who’s supposed to be up against the Blight. And I count two Wardens among you.”

“Well, it’s not a party unless there’s four,” Bull says, “Besides, you came along.”

“I have a fondness for heroes,” Varric replies, “I dabble in writing.”

“As a writer, how do you think this one ends?”

“A big _boom_ ,” Varric answers, “The girl saves the day and gets her romance - maybe -, or something about the power of friendship. But those aren’t the stories I go in for.”

“Alright, how would _you_ write this, then?”

“Someone dies, there’s a betrayer among you and it’s not who you think, also someone’s going to lose something important,” Varric says, “But hey - you’ll all live, for the most part. I’m a sucker for a good ending like that.”

“Sounds like a shitty book,” Bull replies.

“Ah, the main character always says that about their story,” Varric laughs.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t read it, though,” Bull points out. “I’d just call it garbage the entire time.”

“But there’s that one line that just keeps you going, right?”

“ _Bull!_ ” Lavellan’s voice echoes out through the cavern, “Tell Dorian that this isn’t quartz! You studied rocks. Agree with me!”

Bull raises his hand in acknowledgement, “More like one theme. But you’ve got it, mostly. If we live through this mess you better describe me in perfect detail.”

“Mess of a face, rippling gut, and bleeding heart? Done and done.”

-

“Blackwall,” Lavellan springs up onto the man’s back, arms and legs easily looping around him. Blackwall sighs, but grabs her legs and pushes her up his back, resigning himself to this for at least half an hour.

It’s good training, he tells himself.

“Lavellan,” He says.

“Work on pick up lines with me,” She says.

“ _No_.”

“They’re Gray Warden themed. Varric and Sera helped me write them.”

“A stronger _no_.”

“But how will I know that they’re good Gray Warden pick up lines if you don’t help me?”

“This isn’t appropriate, Lavellan.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m thirty years your senior.”

“ _Hahren_ is thirty years my senior and he doesn’t mind.”

“No, he just doesn’t _care_.” Blackwall sighs, “There’s a _difference_.”

“Blackwall!”

“Practice on Bull.”

“I can’t _practice_ on Bull because I’m trying to _use_ them on Bull,” Lavellan sulks. “I mean, mostly I just want to make him laugh. I think he’s a little sad because we had to split up and leave his friends behind at Redcliffe.”

“Oh, in that case - _still no,”_ Blackwall says. “I regret ever picking you up.”

“No you don’t,” Lavellan pokes his face. “You like me. I’m your favorite student _ever_. You and Solas are so similar, you both like to pretend you think I’m annoying.”

“Are you sure we’re pretending?”

“Of course I am, you always smile at me whenever I get something right when you think I don’t notice. Which is silly. I’m Dalish. If I don't notice things _I get killed_.”


	47. Chapter 47

“Death, are you awake?”

Bull's eye opens instantly, and he raises his head, sitting up. His bare feet are cold on the ground. His eye lands on her body on the bed in the middle of the room, curled onto her side, bare and almost blue in the night.

Every door and window thrown open for the wind to see.

(“There's no point in getting underneath,” Lavellan said, “I’m cold either way.”)

“Yes,” Bull answers, slowly rolling his shoulders, eye scanning the room for threats he knows aren’t there.

Lavellan’s remaining hand curls over her shoulder, long fingers digging into flesh as she curls tight onto herself.

Her feet curl, body bending under invisible pressure in the night. Bull waits.

“When there is only one left,” She says, “When they have all bent to my will, when they have all learned to play by my rules, when there is no one left but me, will you be there? Will you catch me? Will you finally catch me?”

Bull rests his arms on his knees.

“Is that an order?”

Lavellan’s hand drags fistfuls of thick hair from her back over her face, and softly answers - sounding too similar to the vague memory he has of the person _before_ \- “No.”

Bull pushes himself to his feet, crossing the room towards her in five easy steps until he stands over her bed, over her.

Lavellan slowly rolls onto her back, knees held up, hand holding her hair over her face. With one hand Bull easily pushes her knees down until she’s lying flat as he bends over her.

Death has been good to her - filled her spaces and fleshed out and defined her in ways that Bull couldn’t imagine on the boney wisp of a thing she was before. The Lavellan underneath him is broad and deep and echoing. An ocean that is full and empty at once.

She moves her hair just enough so that he can see her eyes, and the room lights up with green as her spectral hand forms. He no longer flinches when she reaches for him with it, raising the hand to stroke at his jaw, his chin, his cheek, tracing the edge of his lower lip -

The hand gets more and more detailed, more defined, every time. Now, she’s gotten so good at conjuring it that it feels only like a nail, a fingertip -

Lavellan casts her hand over his face, feeling the ridges of scars and age and war.

“Is that an order?” He repeats, pushing down on her cold knees.

“No,” Lavellan answers, pulling more hair out of her face to show part of a cheek.

“Yes,” Bull reminds her, squeezing her knees with his one hand and letting her go. He made a choice. He continues to make that choice.

Lavellan’s eyes fall closed and her smile is revealed.

(“ _When this is all over,” Lavellan says, tracing the lines of his mask with her fingertips as he washes blood off of his tools, “You will not have to be this any longer. When it is all done, I will be finished.”_

_“You will never be finished,” Bull tells her._

_“You will take me,” Lavellan says, and Bull looks at her. Her eyes are fixed on the mask. “When this is over, I will lay myself out for you, and you will take me.” Her eyes raise to his, “On that table. With those hands, I do myself - body and soul - entrust. Do you understand?”_

_Yes. No._

_“Do you obey?”_

_“Yes.”)_

-

“Uncomfortable?” Lavellan asks.

Dorian taps his finger against the table, “A little.”

Lavellan hums, flicking another page in the book of the dead. One of many Dorian keeps.

As one of the few left among the Inquisition who’s study is bodies - alive or dead - the grim task of handling bodies has fallen upon Dorian. There are secrets to be unlocked in death. There are secrets to be put away with the dead.

“I didn’t know you very well before,” Dorian says when Lavellan doesn’t say anything further, “I liked you, then. I felt as though there was something in you I could respect, something in you that was interesting, something in you that I would enjoy knowing. But I did not know you very well - I knew you. But I didn’t know you well.”

“And now you don’t know me at all,” Lavellan muses, eyes slowly tracing the names.

“No,” Dorian says, “Sometimes I think I catch glimpses of the person I thought I was getting to know. Or perhaps I was imagining it. It’s disconcerting.”

“Does it displease you?’

“I think, Lavellan, whether it displeases me or not is something you couldn’t give two shits about,” Dorian replies, reluctantly amused by the question.

“Correct,” Lavellan says, raising her dark eyes to him, leaning back in her seat. “Would you be so opposed to knowing me as I am now?”

“I am a necromancer,” Dorian answers, “And I am from Tevinter. I have spent a great deal of my life following studying the dead.”

-

“I,” Lavellan says as she walks over wet stone towards him, eying the many instruments of his trade, “Did not ask you to do this.”

“No,” Bull says, setting his knives to the side.

“Nor did I order you to do this,” Lavellan continues, wisely avoiding touching or getting too close to any of his set ups. Some of the liquids are poisonous.

“No,” Bull confirms.

Lavellan looks around the dark stone room, “You did not have to do this.”

“It’s what the Qun made me for anyway,” Bull replies, turning towards her, gesturing for her to move away he bucket of water and the clean cloths to wipe his hands and arms. Lavellan steps back, careful to avoid the pools of blood on the floor.

“No,” Lavellan says.

She knows what the Qun made him for. And while it was close to this, it was not exactly this at all.

But Lavellan’s eyes are thinking, willing to overlook the small smearing of the truth in pursuit of something else.

Lavellan watches him as he wipes blood off of his hands, his arms. She watches him and looks around the room, taking in the many, many tools of torture and death and healing all in one space. She looks at the body spread out on the the table.

She looks at the books and scrolls on the narrow table far away from the rest of everything else - a place for him to jot down notes and things.

“It is not you,” Lavellan says slowly, “Because it is not what I ordered of you. You are nothing that I do not make you.”

“Oh?”

Bull turns to look at her, leaning his hip against the table with the water basin.

Lavellan removes her hand from behind her back, revealing a mask in the shape of a horse or cow’s skull.

She looks at him expectantly. Bull obligingly moves towards her, leaning his head down for her.

“And now you have become Death, as I have willed you to be,” Lavellan says. tracing the edges of the mask with her hand, as if she were holding his chin in her hands. “ _This_ is Death. This is the you who will kill and hurt. This is the you who will answer when I call.”

“You knew beforehand,” Bull says.

Lavellan’s eyes narrow.

“Yes,” Bull answers, hands going behind his back.

Lavellan’s lip twitches upwards at the corner and she kisses the mask, over his lips, eyes open as she smiles.

“Leliana told me,” She says, “I did not believe it at first. I was too surprised. No sacrifice goes unrewarded.”

“It is what I was made to be,” Bull replies. “It is not a sacrifice.”

“No?” Lavellan raises an eyebrow, she runs her knuckle along the edge of the cold metal mask.

“I sacrifice nothing through my service,” _to you_.

Lavellan hums, “For a better world, no?”

“If that’s what you want,” Bull says.

Lavellan laughs, “You say that without meaning it. Flatterer.”

Bull smiles, and knows that she’ll know.

This new Lavellan is capable of many things, but Bull knows that out of every single player currently active in the game, she’s the one capable of driving actual change. Lavellan’s world can only be better than the one they’re living in now.

Anything would be better than this slow death.

And she knows it.


	48. Chapter 48

Lavellan makes a soft, disturbed humming chirp.

This particular humming chirp is different from all the other sounds Krem has learned over the past nine months, and in total - over the past almost six or seven years he’s known the woman.

“I am having the baby,” Lavellan says.

“Yup,” Rocky muses, “That you are. Kind of late to go back now.”

Krem starts to get a sinking feeling in his stomach as Lavellan stares at the wall, hand resting over the swell of her stomach.

“Now,” She says.

“What?” Varric asks, looking up - and judging from the way his face slowly grows pale - is coming to the same conclusion Krem is.

Lavellan nods once to herself, “I am having the baby.”

She pauses and smiles beatifically, “Right now. My water broke.”

And that’s how Krem finds himself crammed into Varric’s shitty mini-van with Lavellan dreamily floating around the side of the car as Stitches and Dalish attempt to convince her to _get inside_ while Varric calls Cassandra from the front.

“No, listen, Pentaghast, we need your plates.”

“My _what_?” Cassandra asks.

“Your plates - your special foreign important person plates. Lavellan’s water broke and we need to get her to the hospital.”

Varric’s phone is connected to his car, so all of them get to hear what sounds like Cassandra getting out of her seat and grabbing someone by the back of the neck, snarling _pull over_ , and the very quick and immediate sounds of tires squealing, doors opening and slamming shut, people rearranging themselves, and a siren turning on.

“I will be there in five minutes.”

“You don’t even know where we are.”

“ _I’ll be there in five minutes_.”

Cassandra is indeed with them in five minutes - because Lavellan still can’t be convinced to get into the damn van - and with one look, Lavellan is immediately climbing into the back seat of Cassandra’s black, shiny SUV.

Some extremely nervous men in suits get out as the rest of them get in.

“Where’s Bull? Dorian?” Cassandra asks.

“Bull’s at the airport,” Lavellan answers, the only calm person among them as she pets Grim’s knee. Grim is staring at Lavellan like she’s grown a second head as she half climbs on top of him to make room for Dalish to squeeze in.

“Dorian?” Cassandra asks.

“You aren’t going to believe this,” Varric says, “But Bull is at the airport to get Dorian. Dorian’s flight was delayed and they’re behind by three hours.”

“We were going to induce the labor tomorrow,” Lavellan says as Krem and Stitches finish loading Lavellan’s things into the back of the truck, “What a coincidence!”

Lavellan pets her belly, “But you are a naughty baby! You should really wait until your daddies are present.”

Cassandra makes a high pitched groan and revs the engine.

Actual _minutes_ later - thanks to both the combined star power of everyone present, Cassandra’s terrifying driving, and Lavellan’s overall magical charm, in addition to the arrival of everyone else they know and _their_ star power and magical charm - Lavellan is checked in and everyone is crowding in the waiting room.

Krem is nearly one hundred percent certain that no civilian hospital has ever had this many high profile people crammed in their waiting room - with more on the way.

“What, did you plan for all of us to be in the delivery room with you or what?” Sera had asked, meeting them just as Cassandra’s car squealed into the patient drop off zone.

“That would have been ideal, yes,” Lavellan had said, “Which reminds me - has anyone told Bull and Dorian that their child is being born?”

The answer was _no_.

Everyone looks up as the men of the hour run into the room, almost crashing into the reception desk -

“Uh, is one of you the father?” Because really, there’s only one person these two people are here to see considering the rest of the damn room.

“I’m the father,” Dorian says at the same time Bull says, “I’m her husband.”

The two grimace and the room, collectively groans. _Of course_.

Bull covers his face with a hand and waves the other at Dorian, “You go, it’s your kid being born.”

Dorian glares, “And she’s _your_ wife.”

“The three of you didn’t even think about this, did you?” Vivienne asks - it isn’t even really a question at this point - , flipping a page in a five month old magazine.

“Nope,” Bull says.

“But we _do_ know the theme for baby’s first birthday party.”

-

“What’s wrong with Dorian?” Lavellan asks, walking into the room and reclaiming her seat. Cole immediately lies down with his head on her lap, facing her barely present baby bump, touching the tip of his nose to her stomach. She begins to wind her hand through his hair and Cole begins to mumble something - most likely poetic and mildly disturbing. Like a single drop of ice down the soul.

Dorian groans softly, arms over his eyes as he lies across the love seat, phone loosely held in his hand.

“Latest boyfriend dumped him via text,” Bull says, putting his arm around her shoulders, hitting play on the movie.

Lavellan narrows her eyes, “Is that the one you brought to the wedding, Dorian? The one that’s off and on? Because I told you that I did not approve. I would have said more but I was worried you’d walk out on me and I would be short a best man. But I’m telling you _now_. He was a very thorough turnip. A bad turnip. A very bad turnip.”

“No, that’s a different one. He met this one at a symposium,” Bull says. “You’re thinking of the one Cassandra almost punched out when Dorian went to give the wedding toast. The closet-bigot turnip that we didn’t realize was a closet-bigot about until he started talking shit because he couldn't handle one little drink without running his mouth. And Dorian thought he was just like - not a drinker at all.”

“Which is the symposium one then?” Lavellan frowns, “Have we met the symposium one? Is symposium turnip the one that said Dorian was committing a crime of nature by using a surrogate mother?”

“No, that’s racist turnip - they broke up the day we began thinking about this thing.”

“Do you have to call them all turnips?”

“Do you prefer dingdongs? Wingdings? Canker-sores? Don’t defend them. They all broke up with you for stupid reasons. And they were all concealing horrible, horrible character flaws from you.”

Dorian puts an arm over his eyes, “Via _text_. I’m not even good enough for a phone call. Or a public blog post.”

“Dorian, if I were a man, and your boyfriend, _and_ stupid enough to break up with you I’d definitely make it worthy of internet drama,” Lavellan says.

“That’s not a good thing,” Bull says to her.

“It’s better than breaking up through _text_ ,” Lavellan points out.

Cole puts his hand on her stomach, “Maybe Baby can find a better boyfriend for Dorian. The Iron Bull always says babies attract a lot of dates.”

Lavellan turns to stare up at the Iron Bull, “How were you using babies to pick up dates? _You’ve never had a baby before_. This one isn’t even born yet.”

Bull shrugs, “Grim.”

“What?” Dorian raises his arm to give Bull a baffled look.

“Grim found a baby once and he got about fifty phone numbers before we could find the kid’s parents,” Bull says. “It’s a combination of the stoic demeanor, the baby, and the fact that he’s probably an exiled bastard son of some foreign prince.”

Lavellan turns to Dorian, “Maybe you should date Grim.”

“ _Not on your life_.”

-

“Anyway, I’m pregnant,” Lavellan says and both Bull and Dorian freeze.

Lavellan pauses her pacing around the room, holds the phone away from her ear, shrugs, and tosses it over her shoulder.

“I’m going to make a peanut butter sandwich. Did we run out of honey?”

Bull catches it without looking.

They can both hear Evelyn screaming on the other side - “ _Lavellan? Ellana? Ellana! You’re what? Ellana!_ ”

Bull glances at the phone and then deadpans, “Your sperm, your problem,” and tosses the phone at Dorian.

Dorian lurches forward in his chair, almost sliding off of it as he fumbles his catch - a few heart racing seconds later Dorian gapes at Bull, gesturing at the phone with his hand.

Bull smirks and goes back to reading pamphlets on various pregnancy things - nutrition, tips for back aches, helpful phone numbers -

Dorian glares at him.

“ _Our_ Lavellan, _our_ problem,” And puts the phone on speaker, tossing it back onto the couch Bull is sitting on.

“You’re on speaker, Evelyn,” Dorian says.

“Bull!” Evelyn yells, “You’ve gotten Ellana _pregnant_?”

“Wrong,” Bull says, “ _Dorian_ ’s gotten Lavellan pregnant.”

At least five different voices scream _what_ at the same time.

“Who are you even _with_?” Dorian asks.

“Dagna, Malika, Josephine, Sera, and Evelyn,” Maxwell answers, “Cullen - but he’s currently choking on his own spit. Evelyn might not count because I think you killed her. She hasn’t had an asthma attack since we were like - _twelve_. Now she’s going _blue_. How could you do this to us?”

“ _You got Ellana pregnant_?” Evelyn wheezes. “Dorian, I don’t - _Bull_. I. _You!_ ”

“Before you come over here, a baby strapped to your back and chest,” Dorian says, “On the upside you have someone to be pregnant with! Pregnancy buddies! You’re always complaining about how none of us know what it’s like.”

“ _Cullen hold the twins_ ,” Evelyn bellows out - proving once and for all that while she is on maternity leave she has not, for a single moment, lost a single _molecule_ of what makes her a terrifying Inquisitor. If anything it’s multiplied. “I’m going to kill Dorian and the Iron Bull. Maxwell - get Cassandra, I need her to hide the bodies.”


	49. Chapter 49

"The next time you get my wife pregnant _you're_ going to have to deal with the craving runs,” Bull says.

Dorian is avidly aware of the spectacle they must make.

Lavellan - obviously months into pregnancy and staring at the menu board for the cafe -, Bull - huge, one eyed, scarred with _horns_ \- standing behind her, and Dorian rounding out their delicate trio - a known Tevinter politician.

“Joke’s on you, there is no next time,” Dorian says.

Lavellan turns away from the chalk board of drinks to give him a wounded look, hand over her round belly, “But what if baby wants a sibling?”

“Baby has the Chargers,” Dorian pulls at her arm, “I already ordered for you and Bull. They’re only mostly lukewarm because you’re both _late_.”

“Bull wouldn’t wake up,” Lavellan says, pulling her arm from his. “And I don’t want my usual. I want to try something _new_.”

Dorian and Bull exchange a glance over her head.

Lavellan’s usual is enough to make you _cringe_ , they can’t help but think maybe now isn’t the best time for her to be experimenting food-wise.

“Maybe after you get your stomach settled,” Bull says, gently pushing her shoulder in the direction Dorian was pulling her earlier. “And don’t give me that look, I was driving all over the place looking for a very specific type of ice cream texture and flavor last night and early this morning.”

“I felt like I was _dying_ ,” Lavellan says, “Like - like if it wasn’t in my mouth within the next few moments I would expire on the spot.”

They help her ease into the chair and Lavellan pulls out a thick _tome_ from her bag, “Anyway, baby names.”

“We’re going to do baby names? _Right here_?” Dorian blinks as Bull gets to work dividing Lavellan’s sandwich into parts she will eat and parts she’ll ask Bull to eat for her later.

“What’s wrong with here?” Bull asks, delicately peeling tomato skin off of a tomato in a very practiced and efficient flick of his fork. Lavellan wordlessly plucks the skin from him and pops it into her mouth, slurping it up like a noodle.

“It’s in the middle of a cafe,” Dorian says.

“Dorian, the entire _world_ knows I’m pregnant with _your_ child,” Lavellan rolls her eyes, “It’s not like anything about this pregnancy is a secret. Dorian, there’s paparazzi _right behind you_.”

Dorian turns around and there is, indeed, a small crowd of paparazzi in the window closest to them. Dorian did not pick a window seat, but their corner is slightly visible _through_ a window at a certain angle.

“This is worse than when I came out as gay to the public,” Dorian says.

-

“Now hold on, how come baby gets _two_ god mothers and no god father?” Dorian asks.

“Yeah,” Bull says, “Isn’t that kind of not how its supposed to go?”

Lavellan gives them boy a flat stare, “Name one competent man the three of us know and trust with our baby. Name _one_.”

Bull and Dorian glance at each other and then groan.

“That’s right, not a single competent man to be found among them,” Lavellan says.

“Krem?”

“Has the Chargers.”

“Rylen?”

“Under Cullen who’s attached to Evelyn who is already Baby’s god mother.”

“Kaaras?”

“Herrah’s brother and she’s already Baby’s other god mother. Plus, Herrah is married to Josephine and who’s more perfect for raising a baby than Josephine? Anyway - back to the original topic at hand. Where the hell am I giving birth to Baby?” Lavellan looks down at the just barely there bump. “Baby! Where should you be born? Tell me!”

“Well, the entire point of this is for Dorian to tell his parents to shove it up their ass, so Tevinter _seems_ logical,” Bull says.

“But assassination is something we definitely have to worry about,” Dorian says, resting his head on Lavellan’s shoulder as she lightly pats her stomach with her hands, demanding the baby make some sort of proclamation for where it would like to enter the world. “But getting a passport and citizenship for Tevinter is a _pain_. Especially if you’re half elf.”

“Maybe we should make baby Orlesian,” Lavellan muses, “Orlesians hand out citizenships like pamphlets. All I had to do was give my name and they approved mine.”

“Love, that’s for an entirely different reason,” Dorian pets her knee fondly.

“Yeah, I’m still waiting on mine and I’ve been working in Orlais for way longer than you,” Bull says.

Both of them turn to look at Bull, “You don’t have citizenship yet?”

Bull gives them both an amused look, “What, you thought I did?”

“You were stripped of citizenship under the Qun,” Lavellan gapes, “ _What are you_?”

“Ferelden,” Bull shrugs.

“Dogs!” Lavellan whispers. Dorian can just imagine the hearts in her eyes. She turns to Dorian, beaming, “I’m married to a dog lord.”

Dorian groans, “Baby is going to be one third dog lord.”

“Maybe give birth at Skyhold, technically it’s like - no country. It’s it’s own country,” Bull says.

“Baby will not be born at Skyhold,” Lavellan hits the back of her hand against Bull’s stomach. “Baby is going to be born in a normal person hospital.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Lavellan drags out the word, “Skyhold is in the mountains and you’re going to ask a nine months pregnant me to _go up a mountain to a military fortress_ to give birth? I don’t think so. That seems like a good idea _now_ but trust me, in about seven months you will _hate it_.”

-

“I think Dorian and Kaaras are going to start dating,” Evelyn says as soon as she manages to get herself seated next to Lavellan.

“You don’t think it’ll be twins again, do you?” Lavellan asks, staring at Evelyn’s incredibly large baby - well. It’s not quite a _bump_ anymore.

“With my luck?” Evelyn snorts, “ _Triplets_.”

“And you two worried about Cullen’s health problems,” Lavellan muses. “Anyway, what about Dorian and Kaaras?”

“Have you seen the two together recently?” Evelyn asks.

“She’s right,” Josephine and Leliana both chime in. Lavellan looks up at Josephine offers her another pillow to put behind her back. Leliana is farther off in the house making a late lunch. “I ran into them the other day with Herah and they were _adorable_.”

“Just because people look adorable together doesn’t mean they _are_ together,” Dagna says from where she’s putting together a baby bouncer for Evelyn. “I mean, look at Maxwell and Cassandra.”

“Ah, but that’s my cousin and he’s a train wreck made of puppies,” Evelyn replies. “This is different. This is Dorian. And Kaaras.”

Lavellan drums her fingers on her stomach, “I’m going to need more proof that Dorian is dating the brother of Baby’s god-mother.”

“Not dating, _yet_ ,” Leliana calls out, “Ladies, remind me - which one of you can’t stand the taste of tomatoes right now?”

“Me,” Evelyn raises a hand.

“No crusts,” Lavellan raises her hand, “No glory.”

“We were actually looking for baby clothes,” Josephine says, sitting on the sofa next to Lavellan, tucking her legs up underneath her, “For your shower - and no, I am not going to tell either of you what we got, so don’t give me that look.”

“Boo,” Lavellan frowns.

“Not important, tell her more,” Evelyn says, leaning her shoulder against Lavellan’s before returning to attempting to figure out which pillow will give her the best back support.

“And we saw Dorian and Kaaras in the store picking out baby clothes also,” Josephine says, “As an aside - I thought you were going to keep the baby gender a secret?”

“We are,” Lavellan says, “But we want to get both based covered and who’s to say a boy baby can’t wear pink and a girl baby can’t wear blue? Go on please.”

“It’s just - the way they talked and looked at each other and laughed,” Josephine says. “Herah said she hadn’t seen Kaaras look that relaxed with someone in a long time.”

“Well, we’ve all been friends for years,” Lavellan points out, “That would help.”

“And sometimes it takes years to figure out what’s good for you,” Evelyn says, voice soft. “Sometimes, it takes years for you to become someone who knows they can do better.”


	50. Chapter 50

“Lavellan!”

“Evelyn!”

“Lavellan?”

“Evelyn?”

The four of them look at each other, Cullen at Evelyn, Evelyn at Lavellan, Lavellan at Evelyn, and Bull at Lavellan.

“You know Evelyn?” Bull asks.

“ _You_ know Evelyn?” Lavellan returns,  opening her arms as Evelyn pushes Cullen out of the booth to hug her. “Evelyn visits the zoo all the time. She has a year pass and everything, I love her.”

“Maxwell bought the thing,” Evelyn says, the tips of her ears a little red, “And I go with him to make sure he doesn’t get kicked out.”

“Evelyn is the Police Chief for the next district over from mine,” Bull says.

“I can’t believe that the person you found at speed dating is Bull,” Evelyn lightly hits Lavellan’s arm as Lavellan pulls Bull out of the booth and shoves him onto Cullen’s side. Evelyn and Lavellan glide into the opposite seat, arms linked.

“Well it’s very hard to announce that the person you met at accidental speed dating is actually called _the Iron Bull_ ,” Lavellan points out, “ _This_ is Cullen? He’s got eyes. And a nose. And hair! Wow, lots of hair.”

“I’m sorry I can’t say most of that for yours,” Evelyn says and the two begin to animatedly talk about things that Bull and Cullen have no idea where to even start on.

“I can’t believe our girlfriends know each other,” Bull says.

“I can’t believe that your girlfriend _exists_.” Cullen says, flipping open the plastic covered diner menu as if he isn’t going to order the same thing he always orders at any diner like the predictable straight laced man he is.

“Told you she isn’t a fucking cryptid, Rutherford.” Bull reaches for the desert menu so he can get that shit sorted before Lavellan gets to it. They’re going to be here for a while, based on how far back Lavellan and Evelyn seem set on catching the other up.

-

“How was speed dating?” Dorian asks when Lavellan throws the doors to their office open and skips into the room like the strange and overly exuberant _morning person_ she is.

“Wonderful,” Lavellan says, jumping into her chair and using the momentum to roll into him, “Joke’s on _you_ , I had a grand time. I even met a few people.”

“Joke’s on _you_ , that was the _idea_ ,” Dorian points out, “But the real question is - did you meet anyone worth meeting?”

“Everyone is a person worth meeting Dorian, to think otherwise would be against my philosophy of doing everything my parental unit tells me is terrible,” Lavellan replies, “But I did meet some in particular and we’re going out this Saturday for brunch. Free mimosas, Dorian. _Free mimosas_.”

“What’s their name?” Dorian asks.

“The Iron Bull.”

“The _what_?”

“You heard me perfectly well,” Lavellan says, “How are my precious snoots today?”

“You’re going on a date with someone named _the Iron Bull_? Are they a _stripper_?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dorian. What kind of stripper name is that? Besides, we know all the strippers already. Varric gave us an indexed list. He’s a _detective_.”

Dorian gapes as Lavellan preens.

Lavellan pats Dorian’s cheek, “Next time, maybe don’t sign me up for themed speed dating.”

-

“I don’t even know how this guy can tell shit is gone,” Bull says, looking around the house. “It’s half mausoleum, a quarter modernist bullshit, and the rest of it is hippie vibes.”

“It’s an interesting aesthetic, I’ll admit that much,” Hawke muses, “The security is also top of the line, I’m amazed someone even got in to rob the place to start with.”

Looking around, it looks like everything is where it should be. For the most part, the house looks neat, clean, well cared for. But the man insists that the place was broken into and that things were taken.

“He’s pretty certain it’s one of his siblings, I’m sensing family _drama_ ,” Sera says, breezing by with an evidence bag filled with brightly colored cereal, “Shit’s going to go down. It’s going to be epic. Rich people. Annoying but entertaining.”

“ _Parental unit!_ ” Everyone looks up when they hear a woman’s voice yell from the foyer. Bull’s eyebrows raise.

“No.” He mumbles.

“What?” Hawke asks as the woman yells out again.

“Parental unit?”

“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to - “ They can hear Sutherland say.

“Da’fen?”

They all turn towards where Evelyn was busy discussing the break in with the home owner. The man blinks, looking incredibly surprised, turning away from Evelyn, arms unfolding, and calling out to the main hallway.

“Da’fen, what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? _Parental_! There are _police_ in your _yard!_ Have you finally come to your senses and decided to report everything you know about how much of a tit your brother is? Police officers I support his claim! I have _testimony!_ I’ll call my brother in from wherever he is to testify with me. We are _witnesses!_ ”

“Lavellan?” Bull calls out.

“Bull?!?”

Lavellan bounds into the room, glaring and pointing at him, “You! You _sneaky_! I never gave you permission to meet my parental without me!”

Sutherland comes up behind her moments later looking extremely flustered.

“ _That’s_ Lavellan?” Hawke and Sera gape.

“She’s _real_?” Sutherland gasps.

“I _told you_ ,” Cullen and Evelyn chime in.

“ _This_ is the Iron Bull?” Solas says, turning to stare at the Iron Bull.

“ _That’s_ your parental unit?” Bull stares at Solas.

“She calls her dad a parental unit?”

“I still can’t believe she’s real.”

“I can’t believe it’s not butter.”

“Parental unit, you called the police and didn’t tell me first?”

“Lavellan, you’re _dating a Qunari police officer and didn’t tell me?_ ”

“Your dad is _not only a dick but he’s a rich dick_?”

Solas and the Iron Bull glare at each other as Lavellan throws her hands into the air, flouncing off in the direction of the kitchen - “ _I’m going to make coffee and make your house stinky with it. You deserve it!_ ” - while Sutherland haplessly tries to stop her.

“Awkward,” Hawke says looking between the three of them. “So, Lavellan’s real, she’s from money, her dad’s just got robbed and called the police not knowing that she’s dating the police, and not a single one of the people here knew about the rest of it.”

“Told you,” Sera says, holding out her cereal to Hawke like it’s popcorn, “Annoying but entertaining.”


	51. Chapter 51

-

Dorian idly spins his spoon around his fingers, irritation with his parents now fading to the back of his mind now that he’s gotten the most of it off his chest.

Between the silent treatment his boyfriend is giving him for the stupidest reason of _you don’t understand my art!_ \- his so called art being pile of cement blocks he took from a freeway underpass - , his parents increasingly haranguing him about the legacy of the Pavus line - _knowing_ he’d never consent to arranged marriage because it is an archaic institution and frankly just damned awful all around - , all of Tevinter gossip reveling in the fact that Dorian is uncompromisingly and proudly _gay and not going to change his mind any time soon,_ and the Magisterium entering another cycle of petty grudges, Dorian is moments away from downing an entire bottle of vodka in one go and calling it a _life_.

Bull kicks him under the table and jerks his head at Lavellan who’s gone oddly quiet, eyes narrowed and focused on the space between them.

“I - “ Dorian sits up, “I’m sorry. I keep complaining about my parents and the idiocy of Tevinter politics and such, I didn’t mean to spoil the afternoon. Lavellan?”

“You said that it would be troublesome,” Lavellan slowly says, “Because any woman would just be at it for power and it isn’t fair to include them into politics.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow, “Yes?”

“And you don’t want to just have a baby with someone you don’t know or like,” Lavellan taps her fingers on the side of her half-empty tea cup.

“No.”

“ _I’m_ in politics,” Lavellan says, eyebrows furrowing, “And _I’m_ someone you know and like. I think. I mean, you were my best man at my wedding and I like to think we’re best friends.”

“Yes?”

“I _,”_ Lavellan drags out the words slowly, “In theory. In _theory._ I could have your baby. As a surrogate mother.”

Dorian drops the spoon.

“Kadan?” Bull’s voice sounds incredibly soft. Not soft in the sweet way - soft in the _stunned_ way.

Lavellan immediately reaches out and covers his hand with her own, eyes still focused on some point between Bull and Dorian.

“I mean - if you were both alright with it. I mean - I wouldn’t - it’s just - It’s something,” Lavellan says, “Bull, of course you’d have to agree to it, and I don’t really know for certain, and _Dorian_ would have to agree also but - It’s a solution, isn’t it? Bull, I know you don’t actually want to _father_ a child - we talked about this and I - and I _know_ I don’t want to _conceive_ a child - I don't want anything to do with the parts that lead up to actually _conceiving_ one, but - and Dorian, you would look for a surrogate yourself but you don’t think there is one who wouldn’t use the child for political gain and _I don’t have to because I’m already in it and I don’t care_. And - and Dorian, Dorian - there’s the whole - your father - and - “

Lavellan cuts off, raising her eyes to look at Dorian.

“Dorian, you would never be your father and if you ever felt any doubt there’d be the two of us and you should see Bull with children, Dorian, you should see it.”

She turns to Bull who’s just _staring_ -

“And you think that you couldn’t possibly have anything to offer a child but you _do_ and I’ve seen the way you are around Evelyn’s babies and you love them so much and - _forget it!_ ” Lavellan puts her face in her hands, “Forget I said anything! It was insensitive and inappropriate. Just - _forget I said anything_.”

“Okay,” Bull says to the following silence.

“What?!?” Dorian and Lavellan both look at Bull who’s looking at Lavellan, he turns his hand up so he can slowly curl his fingers around hers.

“I said okay,” Bull repeats. “If this is something you want, if this is something you’re ready for - _okay_.”

Something passes between the two of them, in their looks and glances - something Dorian has always been the smallest bit envious of. Lavellan has a way of making people envious like that. The two of them, in specific, have a way of making people envious. Evelyn says it all the time, and Dorian agrees.

The thing those two have is something majority of the population could never even dream of.

And then both of them turn to him, hands curled together, minds and hearts in synch.

“Are you really alright with that?” Dorian asks Bull.

Bull nods.

“Are you _sure_?” Dorian turns to look between them. “Absolutely sure?”

They both nod.

“Well. I’m not.” Dorian sits back, staring at the two. “You are both absurd beyond belief. I’m going to - I need to think about this, honestly. And I think you two should also. I know you two have that whole - “ He waves a hand between them, “But still. For my own peace of mind. Go home and use verbal communication while I stare into the abyss and parse out how this even began.”

-

“I have made a mistake,” Lavellan announces, staring down at her stomach as Dorian and Bull argue over what channel to watch while Dorian simultaneously texts in his other hand.

It was awkward at first - the three of them sharing one bed.

Separately, Bull and Lavellan sleep in the same bed all the time, and Lavellan and Dorian have shared a sleeping space.

But the three of them _have not_. And before this, Bull is pretty sure that none of them would have ever thought to. Except Lavellan insists that the baby can hear them and she wants to make sure that the baby knows that all three of them are its proud parents who get along.

Over the past months they’ve mostly figured out the schematics of it all.

“How so?” Dorian asks, Bull holding the remote out of reach.

“I don’t think it’s possible for me to continue to sleep on my stomach,” Lavellan answers. “How am I going to sleep now?”

“Lavellan you will sleep on any surface at any time, this is not a problem,” Dorian points out.

“But that’s for naps,” Lavellan protests, poking her belly, glaring in the mirror, “This is for _sleeps_. That’s different. I can’t do a sleeps unless I’m on my stomach.”

-

“Baby is going to have three daddies - four parents,” Lavellan announces to Bull, waving her phone at him. “Two Qunari and one human, and an elf mommy. What if Baby gets confused?”

“Kids understand things easier than adults do,” Bull says, catching her hand and holding it still so he can look, “Nice. I can’t believe we didn’t consider those two for each other to start with. Kaaras looks happy. Herah might rip Dorian’s neck off of his shoulders if he fucks up, though.”

“She can’t, _the Baby will lose a dad!_ ”

“Baby’s got spares. It’s not like Baby powers up with every new parent you add on, kadan. Relax.”

Lavellan smacks Bull’s shoulder with her free hand.

Bull laughs.

“Kaaras is a good guy. He’ll take responsibility for Baby’s biological dad being assassinated for idiocy,” Bull says, letting go of the phone, “Who’s taking the pictures?”

“Does it matter? It’s from Leliana - she probably has five or six people tailing them. Not including Maxwell and Herah and Malika,” Lavellan pauses and begins to tick names off on her fingers under her breath. She frowns, “And not a single one of them has gotten a good close up. I’m so disappointed. I’m going to send Evelyn a strongly worded message about it. She’ll agree with me.”

“I think you’re more invested in Dorian’s love life than Dorian is at this point,” Bull muses, closing his book and putting it aside to help Lavellan settle down comfortably.

“Someone has to be!” Lavellan exclaims, “Dorian picks the worst ones on his own. He gets all caught up in being impressive and charming and all those things and forgets the rest. Substance over flash! I just want him to be happy. And as much as he is now, I think that he really wants someone to be with.”

“You’re a good friend,” Bull says, squeezing Lavellan’s ankle as she taps out a message to Evelyn. “Pavus is damn lucky to have you.”

“I keep telling him that but he doesn’t listen.”


	52. Chapter 52

“Dorian,” Kaaras shakes Dorian’s shoulder, “ _Dorian.”_

For a split second, Dorian isn’t sure what’s happening - he doesn’t hear anything over the baby monitor, the house isn't on fire, he is entirely certain that he doesn’t have to be anywhere or do anything today so he can’t possibly be late, and the sky isn’t falling about their ears.

“What?” Dorian shoves his face into his pillow.

“ _Dorian_ ,” Kaaras sounds exasperated, “Bull took Baby.”

“Baby is one third his,” Dorian says, “Bull can take Baby.”

“ _Dorian there is a note.”_

 _“_ How generous.”

“Dorian read this note.”

Dorian holds out his hand and feels the sticky texture of the sticky  note on his fingers. He turns his head and squints - then -

“ _Lavellan!_ ” Dorian almost trips, tangled in the sheets, “ _Where has your husband taken Baby_?”

Dorian almost feels bad for waking Lavellan up, when he throws the door to her room open.

Lavellan jolts awake, yelping when she goes over the side of the bed with a loud crash - taking both baby monitor, an empty mug, an alarm clock, and a potted plant with her.

“I’m awake, Mommy is awake,” Lavellan shoots up, eyes half-closed and swaying. It would be hilarious how everyone in this house - except Bull - automatically sways when standing, but it’s actually a little sad. “Mommy is awake. Mommy wasn’t sleeping.”

“ _Lavellan_ ,” Dorian hits the wall by the door to wake her up some more, “Bull took Baby.”

“Baby is one third Bull’s, that’s fine,” Lavellan says, swaying moving from _please calm down baby,_ to _regular_ Lavellan swaying, then to _I’m going to pass out from exhaustion_ swaying.

“Read the note.”

Dorian hands Lavellan the note.

Lavellan stares at it and goes completely still. And then she shrugs.

“Reasonable,” She says, and flops down on the bed, half on it and half off.

“Lavellan, he left to get diapers and wipes with Baby four hours ago,” Dorian says. “He should be back by now.”

“The path of life takes you many long and winding roads shotgun canary space boy,” Lavellan mumbles.

Dorian stares at her.

Seconds later she’s asleep.

“Astounding,” Dorian says, turning around and going back to his room, Kaaras is waiting in the hallway and Cole is peering at them through his door. “Apparently this is fine. My heart is going at a thousand miles an hour, but this is fine. I have been outvoted on this one.”

-

“Baby’s just like Lavellan,” Bull says.

“How so?” Cullen asks. All three of his children are turning out to be little clones of Evelyn and Mia, so far, and Cullen has to admit he’s _relieved_ about that. Though he does wish that they could be slightly less combative in their problem solving.

“Well I had to change my pants after Baby vomited,” Bull says, “And as soon as my pants come off Baby started laughing. For like, ten minutes.”

Cullen can’t help but laugh at that, “Well. At least it’s not the same as when they laugh in the back seat for miles for no apparent reason.”

“Yeah, that is a little creepy.”

“Baby’s see things, according to Sera,” Cullen muses, “I don’t know if I believe her or not.”

“Yeah, well at this point _I’m_ seeing things,” Bull says, “The little brat’s got all of us going crazy.”

“That’s parenthood,” Cullen says, “Just wait until the toddler stage. And when they start talking.”

“Are yours there yet?” Bull asks, “Doesn’t Vivienne have your kids on some crazy accelerated learning program or something?

“I think we’re about to start,” Cullen admits, “And it might be working. Has she tried it with yours yet?”

“She and Dorian disagree,” Bull says, “Lavellan and I think the kid doesn’t need it. Shit’s too fancy.”

-

“My doctor is worried about my hips,” Lavellan says, phone jammed between her ear and shoulder as she pushes the grocery cart down the aisle. It’s an honest struggle not to grab things her brain and stomach yell at her to get.

Things like - horrible processed junk foods that she didn’t even want to eat when she _wasn’t_ pregnant. Suddenly they sound like heaven.

Lavellan despises cream cakes.

Now she wants all of them in her mouth right now.

This baby is somehow learning from Bull through proximity. This may or may not be a good thing.

“Understandable, you are kind of small,” Evelyn says. Lavellan frowns. She can hear -

“Evelyn are you doing your groceries?”

“Yes, why?”

Lavellan quickly takes the phone in her hand and calls out, “ _Evelyn?”_

From two aisles over -

“ _Lavellan?_ ”

“I’ll meet you in the snack aisle,” Lavellan says - giving up on looking at boxes of tea and pushing towards the end of the aisle.

“Done,” Evelyn says hanging up.

Lavellan turns, looking around and waves when she sees Evelyn emerge from the juice box aisle - twins sitting in the cart.

“They look more and more angelic every time I see them,” Lavellan says, reaching out and patting the silky curls of the children, “It can only mean that they are hiding dark and terrible secrets.”

“Please don’t give my children unnecessary backstories.”

“It’s my duty as their fairy godmother,” Lavellan says and then, “Evelyn _no_.”

“What?” Evelyn asks, indignant. Lavellan reaches into her cart and pulls out four bags of marshmallows. “ _Listen, Lavellan. Listen_. You have three jars of peanut butter in your cart, you can’t judge me.”

“Yes I can,” Lavellan replies, “Because I’m making a peanut butter and chocolate cheesecake for Sera’s birthday.” She holds up the piece of paper with the recipe in her hand, “And I have to feed almost forty people so I’m going to need a lot of peanut butter. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m pregnant and I already have twins,” Evelyn says, “Is that good enough excuse?”

“Sure, but I’m _concerned_ ,” Lavellan answers, “Let’s balance that out with chips. Potatoes are a vegetable, right?”

“I like the way you think.”

“Of course you do, that’s why you promoted me. Are you willing to go half with me on a jumbo size container of cheese puffs or no?”

“What kind of question is that, Lavellan? _Yes_.”


	53. Chapter 53

" _Thank you? Be thankful to you? To you?”_ Lavellan’s voice cracks in time with her face, the deep shuddering sundering of her mortal skin as pure power pushes and pulls through her veins in a cyclical dance of growth that _will_ destroy her.

Green lashes out, poisonous in every hand - more so in hers for the emotion, the rawness, the unconquerable will she wields it with. She is too familiar for him to look at sometimes.

Perhaps that is why he is so - reluctantly - fond of her. Possessive, perhaps, even.

Solas admits that, quietly, privately, to himself.

Yes.

Possessive.

She is _his_ in a way he can’t even begin to describe, to explain, to justify.

She holds his power, incubates it within her - she is changed by it, she is molded by it, she is exalted by it. And she is ruined by it, as well.

Lavellan for the past few years has been his own, personal little simulacrum.

A reflection of a reflection that was caught between shifting points of focus - a reality made out of something he had only ever dreamed, made idolized and gilded with false age.

“It is _you_ ,” Lavellan snarls, dragging herself forward by sheer force of will, “That should be thanking _me, you old and miserable fool -_ I am the one who remains. I am the one who cleans up your mess. _I am the product of the ones who refused to die in peace_.”

“That you are,” Solas acknowledges, not moving even as she drags herself over dirt and stone and grass and leaf to him. He doesn’t move as she gets close enough for him to taste the electric crackle of energy - writhing and alive, shifting underneath her skin and flaying her inside out, burning her to dust. Lavellan’s hands seize into the front of his overcoat, holding her up.

Ichor stains her lips black and begins to burst the vessels of her eyes.

“I do not end here,” Lavellan hisses.

Solas doesn’t flinch as the black-tinted spittle hits his face. He meets her eyes.

She has more than earned his gaze, his witnessing of her last -

“No,” Solas agrees, “But your sacrifice will be rem - “

With remarkable strength she stands on her own, reels her fist back and punches him.

“ _My sacrifice_?” She shrieks, a burst of power booming out of her like thunder, flattening and burning the grass and turning the area closest to her to glass with heat. “ _My_ sacrifice? What do you know of sacrifices, you selfish and weak willed fool of a man? Forget _my_ sacrifice - what of the others? The countless people who put their lives on hold to fix _your_ mistake? Who can never return to their lives?”

Lavellan staggers, hunched over but eyes determinedly fixed on him as she staggers, swaying.

“Tell me of Varric who lost his most true of bosom friends, cut from him by the armies made by those who used _your_ relic to chase illusions of grandeur. Tell me of the women and children who have lost their homes, their lives, their places in this world. Tell me of the men who will never return from wars fought not because they believed they were just or right or necessary, but because they thought it would keep their women safe. Tell me of the women who went to war, too, and were shattered by it. Tell me of the children, now, who have neither mother nor father - country or kingdom. Tell me - _tell me_ of the countless faithless who were once in love with something greater than they. Tell me of the Iron Bull who was cut from his country and his anchor. Tell me of Dorian who was brave enough to challenge his own foundations and tear them down to try and build them up again.”

Lavellan spits sticky black fluid onto the ground and bares her black stained teeth at him.

“You cannot. Because not once in your damned and miserable life have you known sacrifice - “

“I have killed,” Solas says softly, “I have lost. I have mourned.”

“And you _do not know what you have done any of it for!_ ” Lavellan bellows, “How terrible it must be! Your suffering! Your loss! _How senseless_ ,” She sneers, “How senseless all your murder without a reason, without a goal, when thrown away like apple cores and corn husks and egg shells. I sacrifice _nothing_ for you, _Wolf_. Not once have I ever done anything for you - you will not take my death, my suffering, _my life_ and use it for your cause. I swear to the gods _that I will make for myself_ this.”

“You are dying,” Solas says, “And whether you approve of it or not - you have assisted me in my goals, my works. And in a roundabout way - your entire life, your entire history, has been preparing for this moment. You kept the old ways alive. You have bred a country of war-ready vigilant defenders, nationalists and proud, proud survivors.”

“You will not take them from me,” Lavellan says, the first crack of vulnerability in her voice, her face. “You will not take my people from my heart.”

“Lavellan,” Solas says, reaching out to touch the side of her face with his fingertips. Her skin is hot - even through his gloves. She’s about out of time. And he has none left to give her. “They will come to me willingly - after all, you became victorious through my mark. Who is to say that I will not lead them to yet another victory?”

-

“I do appreciate such an ingenious scholar such as yourself, Altus,” Lavellan says, standing a few paces away without making a move to come closer.

“Is it not impolite to yell out such conversations where you come from?” Dorian asks. “Do come closer, I don’t bite.”

“Shame,” Lavellan says, taking a few pointed steps closer, “I do.”

“Delightful,” Dorian says, “And here I thought I would miss home. Do continue with your, undoubtedly, back handed flattery.”

“As I was saying, I appreciate and respect intelligence and clever thinking such as yours, Altus. Especially when it is the practical sort that saves my life,” Lavellan continues.

“But?”

“But if you are going to use it behind the blinders of your culture - and raise such disappointing defenses such as _quality of life_ , I will be extremely disappointed in you.”

“We could not talk about it,” Dorian points out. “It would be such a shame if I were to be assassinated for insulting the most holy of the Dales before my own parents could get to me. On second thought - no - do go for it, I imagine it would cause them so much bitter disappointment if they aren’t able to erase their mistake of a son and have to go through the tedium of somehow pretending to avenge me or demand recompense.”

“Don’t be so crude or self-depreciating,” Lavellan narrows her eyes, “It is below someone of such caliber as yourself.”

“And now you’ve confused me - am I a disappointment for my belief that stable employment and living quarters is better than starvation and degradation as a vagrant, or am I someone worthy of the Commander of the Dales’ esteem?”

“And now you’ve created a false dichotomy,” Lavellan shakes her head, “You are a disappointment to what you could be and what you could do in the sense that you truly believe the falsehoods and propaganda of slavery, but you are worthy of my esteem in that I see within you the power and possibility of breaking away from such archaic and barbaric views. Either way - talking down your own worth is beneath you. You have the power and knowledge - and better yet, the wisdom to _not_ \- rewrite time. As for slavery - we will talk about it. It is, after all, one of the main sore points between our countries. Though - at the same time, our strong disagreement there does not have to cause the rest of our combined potential to fall sour.”

“Are you capable of getting along with someone you disagree with on so profoundly?”

“Tevinter has loathed my country’s - shall we call it _arrangement_? - with the Qun for years. If I can get along with an entire nation and religion that I disagree with, I can certainly find an even path with one man.”


	54. Chapter 54

"What do you hope Baby is?” Blackwall says as he eyes the two little placards - one says _female!_ in bright yellow with small green stripes along the back, and the other says _male!_ in green with yellow stripes.

“A bipedal,” Dorian replies, waving around five of each little placard - the motion sheds glitter and Dorian’s face is the face of someone who knows they’ll be trying to get that glitter out of the carpet later. “Ideally bipedal with ten fingers and ten toes - specifically five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot. But I’m not picky.”

“I can tell,” Blackwall says.

“As long as Baby is _Baby I don’t care_ ,” Dorian says, “Frankly, I never even dreamed I’d get _this far_ in life - I wasn’t exactly planning out my children when I was a repressed and closeted teenager in Tevinter.”

“Well, now you have another man’s wife pregnant with your child - most other men’s nightmare,” Blackwall says, “What do you think, now?”

“I think that Bull will back me up if Lavellan tries to give Baby a truly absurd name _,_ ” Dorian says.

“You aren’t going to actually name Baby Baby, are you?” Blackwall asks, handing Dorian the placard for _male!._

Dorian opens his mouth, probably about to say _of course not_ , but stops.

“It’s Lavellan,” Blackwall reminds him, “She’s been calling Evelyn’s brats kidney and lima bean since they were born. They respond to those names, now.”

“Hold these,” Dorian thrusts the placards at him and darts off into the house, through the party guests - “ _Bull! Bull, where are you?”_

Blackwall sighs and looks down at himself. He’ll never get the damn glitter out of his beard.

-

“What’s wrong with Cole?” Varric asks, turning in time to see Cole duck behind a door.

“Cole doesn’t like Baby that much, I think he’s scared,” Lavellan says, patting her belly, “I keep telling him that my love for Baby will never overlap or exceed my love for him, but I don’t think that’s it. Everytime I try and ask him about it he shakes his head and jumps out a window.”

“Sounds like you,” Varric says, sitting down next to her, “Well. You raised one kid right. Round two?”

“Don’t be silly, I didn’t raise Cole. Cole raised himself - and I’m very proud of him,” Lavellan says, “Hey, feel Baby kick! That means she thinks my bladder is a bean bag ball. Baby is incredibly wrong, but I can’t stop Baby until Baby listens to mommy _and knocks that off_.”

“I’m sensing some tension,” Varric puts his hand on her stomach where she points him to, “Strong legs. Just like mom?”

“Oh, you flatter,” Lavellan leans in and pretends to whisper, “But I think Baby might take after me. Baby only really listens to Bull when he tells Baby to calm down. Don’t tell him I said that - because he’ll get it into his head that _I_ listen to him.”

“Won’t tell a soul,” Varric mimes zipping his mouth closed. “Cole’s afraid of Baby? You want me to talk to him?”

“That would be helpful,” Lavellan says, “He liked Baby before. He kept asking questions and making up little stories about Baby’s dreaming adventures. Now he’s terrified and I can’t figure out why.”

“Will do,” Varric says, “He wasn’t like this with Evelyn, was he?”

“I don’t think so,” Lavellan frowns. “He’s probably hiding in my peonies.”

“Got it,” Varric says, walking through the house and out the back door. He walks around until he finds a big enough cluster of flowers to hide a twenty-something year old skinny man. “Kid?”

“Varric.” Fingers slide out from between flowers and gently part them to reveal Cole’s eye.

“Something wrong?”

Cole disappears behind the peonies, mumbling to himself.

Varric pulls up a garden stool and sits. He’s been on the run from his publishers and the Kirkwall city council for the better part of two weeks. He’s in no rush to leave.

“Baby kicks, Baby kicks hard, Baby kicks _very_ hard,” Cole eventually says, peering out at him from behind some obnoxiously large flowers.

“Baby’s healthy, you think anyone told it that it isn’t Qunari just because one of its dads is?”

“Baby kicks hard, but skin is so soft, it hurts her - what if Baby doesn't know it hurts her?” Cole asks, “What if Baby kicks _too hard_? What if Baby _breaks_ her?”

“I don’t think that’ll happen, kid,” Varric says, “Lavellan’s been going to the doctor a lot, right? Has the doctor ever said anything?”

“No,” Cole says, slowly pushing through the flowers - somehow without disturbing them - and sitting next to Varric, frown on his face. “But what if it happens like in the movie?”

Varric doesn’t ask which movie because there are a lot of movies where pregnancies go wrong in the very specific way Cole’s hands and fingers are mimicking an explosion.

“I don’t think Baby is _Alien_ ,” Varric says.

“But Baby’s so strong,” Cole mumbles. “And Baby doesn’t know better, just like how Baby doesn’t know not to kick her bladder and like how _I_ didn’t know I wasn’t helping before when I stole things for the skinny cats and the shivering people in the alley ways?”

“You know, people have been giving birth for a while now,” Varric says, “And Lavellan - your sister, she’s a strong lady.”

“Yes,” Cole nods exuberantly, “Lavellan is very strong. Sometimes she scares people without meaning to - the sun does that sometimes, when it’s where people don’t expect it to be.”

“Right - anyway. I think Lavellan would be able to handle it. She’s got all of us helping her, right? And what’s it that Evelyn always says?”

Cole frowns, “We’re hopeless?”

“Alright - that’s fair. But that other stuff about being together?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Cole brightens up, “We’re all a giant mess but at least when we’re together we become the world’s problem?”

“Close enough, point is, Lavellan’s going to be fine. So stop worrying her, she’s got enough to deal with between Bull and Dorian and Baby without feeling like you don’t like her or Baby to go along with it.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean her to feel that way - “ Cole’s eyes widen and he springs up, holding his hat to his head as he dashes towards the back door, “I have to tell her!”


	55. Chapter 55

"I'm taking the dog with me," Lavellan announces. “You’ve deprived me of an animal companion this entire campaign, I’m taking the dog. The dog is now mine. Dog’s name isn't decided yet, but I’m open to suggestions. Top contending names are Butter and Pickles.”

“Oh, yes, because this game is all about doing whatever you want,” Dorian says.

“This is a wild demon wolf that wants to kill all of you,” Bull says, “Did I not describe that well enough?”

“I heard you,” Lavellan says.

“I think she stopped hearing you after the word _dog_ ,” Malika says.

“What kind of stats would she even need to charm a furious demon dog?” Cullen asks.

“Whatever they are she doesn’t have them,” Dorian says, “I’m rolling for initiative.”

“Fine,” Lavellan holds up one of her D20’s, “I’m going to roll to charm the dog. I’m going to charm the dog - it goes without saying. This was meant to be.”

“Okay, roll for it,” Bull says, “But I’m giving you disadvantage because _this is a dog that wants to kill you because it is a demon and it is angry_.”

Lavellan pulls out a second D20 from the spare die jar, the entire time looking Dorian straight in the eye.

Lavellan holds the two D20’s in her hand, raises them over the table, and drops one, then the other. She points at Bull, not breaking eye contact with Dorian.

“Call it.”

Sera and Malika _scream_. Cullen sputters, a dribble of ill-timed soda trickling out of his mouth as he hurriedly pushes away from the table and starts coughing. Dorian stands up, staring -

“ _No!_ ” Dorian yells, pointing.

Lavellan stands up on her chair, puts a foot on the table and raises her arms, “ _Natural twenties_. That dog is _mine_.”

Sera and Malika both high five her.

Bull puts his head in his hands, shaking with either laughter or disbelief.

“What’s all this noise? Did something happen in your little game?” Vivienne calls from the other room where she, Josephine, and Edric were talking.

“Evelyn!” Dorian barks out -

The woman jolts awake, flailing, on the sofa. Herah catches her waving fist -

“Bwah?” Evelyn half sits up, confused, “Wha - ?”

“What are the nods of rolling two twenties on a twenty sided die?” Dorian asks.

“Point twenty five,” Evelyn yawns, already sinking back, “Don’t ask such simple questions.”

And then her eyes open again and she sits up, “We’re already on _the second Lord of the Rings_? How long was I asleep?”

“Good morning Rip van Winkle,” Maxwell says, turning to watch the DnD proceedings as Kaaras   and Cole finish shuffling cards. “You’re about to witness a small miracle.”

“You cheated somehow, I know it,” Dorian says, “Weighted dice or something.”

“Don’t be such a spoil sport,” Sera says, “You’re just mad because you have the shittiest throws.”

“ _Call it_ ,” Lavellan says to Bull who sighs and slowly drags his hands down his face.

“Alright, fine. You know what - _fine_. Alright. With a D20 you stare this thing in the eyes and share a breath over a bullet time moment of silence. You look into each other’s souls and this dog likes whatever it sees. In fact, this dog likes whatever it sees so much it immediately swears its allegiance to you. This dog will die for you. This dog will avenge you if it fails to guard you. This dog is the end all, be all, of dogs. This dog will fucking guard your children and your entire line for as long as they carry a single atom of your blood. You’ve charmed the demon dog and have avoided this entire encounter.”

Lavellan claps her hands and then leans over, hitting Bull on the shoulder, “Babe, babe, did you see that? I rolled two nat. twenties and got a dog. Did you see that? Aren’t I amazing?”

“Yeah, kadan, I saw,” Bull sighs as Lavellan giggles, Malika and Sera pretending to bow and kow-tow to her. “I should’ve rethought the entire demon dog thing.”

-

“Is tonight your game night?” Cassandra asks as she watches Cullen half-heartedly push bags of junk food into his cart, “Are they paying you for that?”

“Well, no,” Cullen says, “But we take turns so we all make up for it eventually. Do you think that’s too much or not enough?”

“Who’s house are you going to?”

“It’s Sera’s turn to host,” Cullen says.

“Do you really want to eat what Sera has?” Cassandra asks, “I’m still amazed that Sera, Malika, and Lavellan can sit still long enough to get through a campaign.”

“We take breaks. They’re mostly involuntary,” Cullen says.

Does it count as a break if you wander off while two of your fellow players are arguing rules with the DM? Cullen’s gone and taken entire walks and come back to see Malika and Lavellan arguing semantics.

“How far in are you in this one?” Cassandra asks. Cassandra doesn’t play and Cullen doesn’t think she ever will - but she still asks about it, even if she doesn’t understand half of it.

“Well,” Cullen says, “That’s a little hard to answer. We left it on a somewhat - ah - difficult note.”

Cassandra raises an eyebrow. “Difficult.”

“Well,” Cullen leans his arms on the cart rail as he pushes it forward. Cassandra pushes her own with his - technically, they’re both his. But Cassandra’s is the one with actual groceries, Cullen’s is the one he’s filling with stuff for DND.

“Sera posed a riddle to deter us from entering a dungeon from the front entrance - something along the lines of, _if a bird is flying a half a league per day and the wind is blowing from the south east at a temperature of lukewarm how much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?_ ”

Cassandra blinks.

“Lavellan insists that there’s an answer, and that answer is _four_. We haven’t gotten anywhere since,” Cullen says. “Mostly because Dorian and Bull are backing her up to see how far they can get this before Sera thinks of a way to try and get us killed. Also Malika keeps rolling to try and pick the lock but there is no lock, it’s just magic.”

“Remind me how long you’ve all been playing this game and _you still_ get stuck on things like this?”

“Cassandra, it isn’t about how long you play it - the longer you play it, the more times you get stuck. When we first started we all kept referencing the rules.” Cullen can’t help but smile a little. “Now we only consult the rules when we want to out someone for cheating.”


	56. Chapter 56

“Zevran Arainai, former Antivan Crow, Veteran of the Fifth Blight,” Lavellan waves an imperious hand, dismissing her aides and guards as she leans back in her throne, “Assassin and vagrant, familiar and stranger, you have not written or visited me in so long. What brings you? _Who_ sends you?”

Zevran bows deeply - it never hurts to show the most Holy of the Dales some humility.

“Your most radiant and youthful of ladies,” Zevran says, “I think we both know who sent me. May I?”

Lavellan hums and Zevran glances up, “You may if it pleases us.”

Zevran waits as Lavellan taps her long finger against the side of her face, watching him. Power has been good to her; Zevran has always thought that Lavellan looked her best in a position of command.

“And I do believe it pleases us,” Lavellan eventually decides, “Come forward.”

Zevran rises with a small flourish, smiling as he goes up the dias towards her. He can count at least three archers taking aim at him, not including the mages who have spells half-ready should he make one wrong move.

He takes her offered hand and kisses the back of her smooth knuckles. Her fingers curl around his and squeeze for a moment before letting go. He immediately kneels, so as to not be higher than her. Lavellan looks at him fondly.

“Has the spymaster sent you? How desperate is this Justinia of hers that she resorts to sending assassins?”

“Leliana knows you have a particular fondness for assassins, most glorious one,” Zevran replies, making himself comfortable at her feet. “The power of the Fangs of the Dales would be one that even the Crows would be wary of - if they ever entered the market. Such good fortune that they aren’t, no?”

Lavellan hums, “I do have some fondness for assassins, it is true. I respect their discipline and patience. Though _you_ , in particular amuse me for a different reason.”

“And the Crows, of course, appreciate and respect your patronage,” Zevran makes sure to add on. “Even I - cast out - “

“Cast out, or runaway?”

“ _Cast out_ as I am, am most certain of that. Though I would mention - for the sake of repetition and habit - I am not quite sure they appreciate your conversion of their favorites,” Zevran continues.

“I imagine not,” Lavellan hums, examining her nails, “The Left Hand has sent you when all her other attempts have failed. I will hear you out, Arainai, if only because you amuse me terribly - tell me. Has the Commander of the Gray continued to elude your attempts at following her? She’s too good for you, you know.”

“She’s too good for all of us, your radiance,” Zevran replies, “And so I am left adrift - going between my fellows, Kings and Spymasters. Not a bad place to be for a former Crow, I should think.”

“No, not a bad place to be at all,” Lavellan says. “Make your case, Arainai - but you will stay the night.”

Zevran smiles beatifically and Lavellan ignores him.

“I have a list,” She says, “Of people I’d like to surprise.”

“Just surprise?”

“I trust you’ll make a lasting impression. You may begin.”

-

“The Qun’s ambassadors and messengers have formally withdrawn from the Inquisition,” Bull says, “They sent some assassins. Courtesy.”

“I am aware,” Lavellan says, “You did just throw two over the wall in front of me.”

“I mean - aside from those ones.”

“Whether the Inquisition realizes it or not, the Qun will continue to work to deal with this situation,” Lavellan says, leaning against slowly warming stone, looking out towards the Breach. “The Qun’s embassy within the Dales, however, does remain intact. I am glad that both of them and I are satisfied by this exchange.”

“A lot of spies to trade for one traitor,” Bull points out.

“Traitor to who?” Lavellan asks, “Not to me. Unless you’ve been giving out my secrets to Tevinter.”

Bull lets out a rough snort.

“I thought not,” Lavellan shrugs, “The Qun has always done its best work covertly - while our military forces here at Skyhold did benefit from their intelligence and coordinated efforts, I believe they can do their best impact against Tevinter from their side without the transparency and compromise the Inquisition demands of them.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Bull says, “There’s a reason why our elite are _spies_. What’s our next move?”

“Our next move is to deal with the annoyance of the Orleisan court,” Lavellan lets out a sharp click of distaste, “I’m tempted to just send one of my stand ins and do something else. But Briala is there and I have spent too much time trying to convince her to speak with me.”

“You convince someone to do anything?” Bull laughs, “Isn’t it normally the other way around?”

“It’s a refreshing change that’s quickly growing tiresome,” Lavellan replies, “Briala doesn’t trust that our interests are aligned. I don’t blame her, but she’s also pushing for too much. Half of the reputation of the Dales comes from the fact that we have not made any moves to invade or take more land than what was accorded to us - Briala asks for us to break those lines. Orlais would have the rest of the Andrastian countries on us within _seconds_. As a saboteur you would think she’d understand such politics.”

“She’s not just a saboteur, she’s a rebel,” Bull points out, “She’s ready to gamble to get it all, or at least make a point. We all know what happens with the ones who’re looking to make a point of something.”

“I admit that I wouldn't mind seeing the capital of Orlais go up in a pillar of explosive energy. That’s crass, isn’t it?” Lavellan glances up at him, “And _you_. Will you be ready?”

“Who am I to say no to that question when the most Holy of the Dales asks me?” Bull replies, “I’ll be ready for whatever you’re planning.”

“Very good,” Lavellan nods, “Keep your ears open, I have _pleasantries_ to practice caring about.”


	57. Chapter 57

"You want to march on the Dales,” Varric says.

“Corypheus wants to march on the Dales,” Cullen corrects, “In order to get to the Temple of Mythal.”

“The Dales haven’t been breached since _ye olden days_ ,” Varric says, “The Orlesians bite their nails and handkerchiefs from across the fucking waters staring at the Dales and _dreaming_. Corypheus can’t actually get to the Temple.”

“Has anyone told Corypheus that yet?” Sera asks, “Someone go do that. End this entire shit show. I’ll watch, yeah? Cover their retreat as the common sense bounces off the stupid?”

“If Corpheus wishes to march on the Dales,” Lavellan says, sounding incredibly bemused as she walks towards them, “I would not say that he is welcome to try as that would not be the most appreciated diplomatic or responsible response, but as a private person _he is most welcome to try_.”

“I’d say snooty overconfidence,” Sera wrinkles her nose, “But you’re right. No one fucks with the borders of the Dales. We’ve had Jennies disappear trying to get in. Then they reappear in like - friggin’ Kirkwall or wherever confused of how the flames they got there. Creepy shit, yeah, but none of them have ever been hurt.”

“We’re a private nation,” Lavellan muses, resting her hand on the back of Cullen’s chair, “We don’t like it when people come uninvited. When they are invited, we are most accommodating.”

“Josephine has always said good things about the embassies in the Dales,” Varric says, “I’m pretty sure she says that to me because in some circles I’m a wanted man.”

“Just some?” Cullen asks, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

“It’s all a matter of perspective, Curly. My checkered past isn’t the topic of conversation here, though. It’s the fact that Corypheus wants to march on the most heavily guarded nation in all of Thedas.”

Lavellan hums, “The Emerald Knights are in the middle of preparation as we speak, along with the Hunters and Fangs of the Dales and my Keepers. When he makes his attempt we will be prepared. The Temple of Mythal is a most sacred place within the Arbor Wilds. Even without us there to watch its walls - he would not be able to take it so easily. She dislikes intruders as much as the rest of us.”

“She?”

“Mythal,” Lavellan replies, “Her Temple guards against outsiders. In the long history of the Dales, we have sent many Keepers to the Temple but all of them return empty handed and confused - as Sera’s Jennies do whenever they try and enter our nation. She does not want to be disturbed.”

Sera groans, “Ugh, this.”

“You will see,” Lavellan says, “Once Inquisition forces arrive, you will see. She fights and resists - she does not want to enter the modern world.”

“So we have permission?” Cullen glances up warily, “Inquisition forces have permission to pass through the Dales?”

Lavellan looks down at him, “I have received word back from the Keepers, if it is what I believe is the best course of action to deal with this pestilence of Tevinter scum, then yes. They will support the Inquisition should we pass through the Dales. And I do believe it is what is best, so we shall, indeed, be passing. Prepare the Inquisition to move. I was on my way to tell Josephine and Leliana - we will have to figure out the logistics of moving our non-Inquisition allies. I will not have just _anyone_ moving through my nation.”

-

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lavellan look so _excited_ before,” Dorian says.

“She likes animals,” Cole says, “Animals are simple and complex, but so warm and so practical. She likes the way they think. They think like better people. Why can’t people just _be_ like animals are?”

“Right,” Dorian turns to look and Lavellan is still crouched down next to Storvacker, talking to the bear like she might talk back.

Though - given the vast amount of things they’ve seen and done, the bear just _might_.

“Point is, I think happiness looks very good on her and it makes her look so much younger,” Dorian says. “Happiness is a good look on most, but on Lavellan it’s all the more precious because usually she looks very _imperious_. Which is also a good look on her - somehow it doesn’t come off as irritating.”

“I’m sure she’ll thank you for the compliment,” Bull says, examining some of the things he’d bought off an Avaar merchant to bring back to Skyhold. Some interesting carvings and a couple of potion ingredients for Stitches.  “For your reference, she also looks that excited fighting dragons. Since, you know, you chicken out every time she brings one up.”

“It’s a natural response,” Dorian snaps, “ _Who in their right mind gets excited at the concept of fighting a dragon?_ ”

“I do,” Bull says, “Cassandra. Sera. Lavellan.”

“Notice how not one of the people you’ve just mentioned can even be considered to be close to rational, logical, common sense wielding people.”

“Tell that to Lavellan, she’ll still thank you for that compliment.”

“The common masses think like drudges,” Cole murmurs, “Better to think wild and free and possibly wrong to find something new and untouched than to stagnate with the rest.”

Dorian throws his hands up, “I am surrounded in the strange and unfathomable.”

-

“Glory upon the most Holy,” The words echo and bounce through the tall trees, rippling over the plains.

Lavellan, astride her hart, doesn’t seem at all moved by the pronouncements, riding straight through them.

She raises her hand and the large intricate gates of the Dales open.

The gates and the segments of wall that line the Dales are mostly symbolic - they are easy to cross, not particularly made of any sort of siege material. The gates and walls are plain stone and wood - on some sections with climbing ivy or painted murals. But they are important.

Anyone trying to cross, or found on the other side without permission _will_ be removed.

Most people have never seen what lies beyond.

The gates open and Lavellan rides through them, travel cloak billowing behind her, “Keep riding,” She calls out, “We do not stop, we do not stop until we are at the first checkpoint.”

“Checkpoint?” Blackwall glances towards Grim who shrugs.

“The outer wall is a superficial structure at best,” Dalish says pulling her hart closer to them, “Mostly it’s for those who check in formally and for patrols of Knights to watch things. But there’s a dead zone beyond - in case it is ever breached - that way the inner walls have time to prepare and fortify themselves. The real walls of the Dales lies within for about a half day’s ride and from those it’s another two days until you reach the first village.”

“Impressive planning,” Blackwall says.

As they ride into the shadow of the beautiful walls, the glitter of the armored Emerald Knights can be seen - a courtesy, or a warning.

“Do they even approve of the Inquisition?” Rocky asks, sitting behind Grim on his horse.

“They approve of what the Inquisition does,” Dalish says, “But I think it’s understandable that they don’t approve of a mostly Andrastian force riding through their country.”

Horns sound and they look to see more horned stags - some with riders, some without - running towards them, turning at the very last moment to run aside.

“An escort?” Blackwall asks.

“Most likely,” Dalish says, “Just to make sure none of us get ideas and sneak off to explore.”

“Secretive bunch.”

“Careful and with good reason.”

“Glory upon the most Holy,” Voice from the Knights chant, “Judgement upon the Prideful. Glory to the Arrow of the Gods.”

“And that’s not worrisome at all,” Blackwall mutters.

“Welcome to the Dales.”


	58. Chapter 58

“Ellana of Clan Lavellan, finest and most accomplished of the Raven’s Brood, we of the Keepers have a most important assignment for you,” Keeper Deshanna says, rising from her seat among the Keepers, sweeping her sleeves back to hold her hands in front of her.

Ellana’s eyes slide over the half-circle of Keepers in front of her - many of them are familiar and kind; there are those who have vouched for her and have fought to keep her among the Shadows. She has slipped in rank, it was inevitable. But she remains a Shadow.

There are Keepers here who argued to have her rank and position stripped entirely - and there are times when she has believed that they were correct to argue that.

She is no longer the Shadow she once was.

“Yes, Keeper,” Lavellan says, “This Shadow awaits new purpose.”

“Of our Ravens you have accomplished much and quickly within your time as a Shadow,” Keeper Levinia says as Keeper Deshanna sits, “Much of this, we understand, was due to your Shadow-partner. Your loss is our loss, the Shadows and Ravens suffered a great blow when your brother was slain in Kirkwall.”

All the Keepers raise their hands to their mouths, touching their fingertips to their lips and extending their hands to her. Ellana mimics the movement.

“Thank you, Keeper,” Lavellan says.

“Rise, Ellana of Lavellan,” Keeper Marethari says, “As you have mourned so have we. I believe you understand - we have been more than gentle with you in your grief. There are many things we have permitted you that we would have permitted none other, in deference to your loss and your accomplishments.”

Ellana pushes to her feet, planting her feet and feeling the thrum of the earth’s soul through her bare feet, hands folded behind her back.

“You are aware of what has occurred to the North?” Keeper Hawen says, “You are aware of the scar upon the breast of the sky?”

“Yes, Keeper,” Ellana says, “I have ridden across the Frostbacks upon your summons. I was witness.”

“And are you familiar with the swords the shemlen take against this scar?” Keeper Marethari asks, “Have you seen this Inquisition?”

“In glimpses - we were at cross paths, they went towards what they call the Breach while I rode here,” She replies. “If your question is about the state of their forces - it is poor, Keepers. This is not the likes of the Exalted Marches the Emerald Knights and Shadows have held off before. This is, at best, a _militia_.”

The Keepers turn and murmur to each other.

“Shadow Ellana,” Keeper Hawen says raising his hand high to call silence and attention, “We believe that in permitting your extended absence from the active duties of the Shadows we have inadvertently permitted you to enter a very fortunate role. You have managed to go much farther within the lands of the shemlen openly and freely. Your reports - though unsolicited are most helpful. We believe that it is time for you to return to your purpose.”

“Shadow Ellana,” Tianna leans forward, sharp eyes boring into Ellana’s, “Your hunt shall be to join this Inquisition in whatever capacity you see fit and to gain as much information as you can. Should it become necessary, attempt to provide some point of contact between the Dales and this Inquisition. We have studied this scar upon the sky - the shemlen do not have the knowledge nor the power to combat this. And if your assessment of their hands is correct, they will not have the force to try. Whether they like it or not, they will need our assistance.”

“And I believe that we, unlike the other countries, will be the first to extend aide,” Keeper Ilan’ta says, “For it is our sky, too - the sky knows no borders.”

“Be forewarned, Shadow,” Keeper Elindra raises a finger and points at her, “If you feel that you are not ready, if you feel that this is not something you can handle, if this is something you refuse - we will be forced to strip you of Shadow rank. We will place new purpose upon you - there is room among you with the Emerald Knights.”

“There is no shame in leaving the Shadows to become a Knight,” Keeper Deshanna says, voice softening, “We of the Dales acknowledge that we cannot survive without either - it is through the vigilance of the Shadows and the perseverance of the Knights that we have come so far and claimed so much.”

“I understand,” Ellana says.

But she is no Knight.

“Their so called Herald may prove to be a problem,” Keeper Hawen says, “Before you accept - what do you know of this _Iron Bull_?”

“He is young,” Ellana answers, “There are many rumors about the Qunari free-man. But what remains consistent is that he is young. He has known combat - he has the scars and injuries to prove it. He has no known Qunari connections. He survived the blast at the Conclave. The rest I hold no stock in.”

More murmurs through the caucus of Keepers.

Privately, Ellana believes almost entirely nothing of the rumors of this Iron Bull. She has heard more of him as a mercenary than an assassin. He was not behind the Conclave. Based on what she’s heard of his Chargers - he wouldn't risk his reputation and his people’s safety like that, no matter what money or gain.

If it does turn out that he _was_ behind it - well. Ellana would both be very disappointed in her ability to parse people out, and very disappointed in him, as well, for all that they’ve never actually met.

“I accept this assignment, Keepers,” Ellana says, “I am a Shadow, I shall seek the Light of Purpose.”

“Can you handle it, Ellana?” Keeper Marethari asks, even as Keeper Deshanna sits back with obvious relief. Ellana would not disappoint her Keeper - even if Keeper Deshanna would never say it.

“He would not be the first Qunari I have faced - and the blood spilled between our kinds is superficial compared to that of our combined blood spilled by humans,” Ellana replies, “I can handle one calf.”

“Go, then, Shadow and hunt your purpose,” The Keepers raise their hands, the faint magic of protecting coating their skin, “The Blessings of the holy Sun and Father, the Holy Mother, upon you. Victory to the arrows of the Gods.”

Lavellan raises her hand and clenches her fist, bringing it to her chest, “Blessings of the Children. May the Quiver remain full.”


	59. Chapter 59

The Iron Bull’s flower is proudly on display - it’s a simple thing that blooms brightly against his skin, just over his shoulder at the edge of his tattoos.

He doesn’t hide it, and its petals calmly spread out over his skin in a vibrant patch of violet and white.

“Aren’t you afraid that someone will hit it on accident?” Dorian had asked him once, when the two were on slightly better terms.

Dorian’s own flower presses flat against his ribs, underneath his clothes and below his heart. The missing sleeve isn’t necessarily a fashion choice - not as much as he likes to pretend it is to make everyone gawp over, anyway.

“Who’s tall enough?” Bull replies, “It’s a pain either way.”

The deep purple dahlia never seems to fully open or fully close - it just lies against his skin, silent and mysterious.

Lavellan had once asked him if him being so open and nonchalant about displaying his soul-flower was something part of the Qun.

The Iron Bull had pointed out the spray of asphodels Solas proudly displayed running down his right arm.

“Ah,” Lavellan had replied, “But that’s hahren. He likes to make jokes and prove points that no one will ever understand.

Vivienne’s own spider lilies run around the back of her head, a startling red against the gold and cream of her high collar and hat.

Sometimes the color of your soul makes a point - one that you wish to flaunt.

The Iron Bull and his dahlia flaunt nothing.

Lavellan, in contrast - keeps her flower hidden. Whatever it is.

“Most would say that it is unfair that you’ve seen the colors of everyone else’s souls, and yet have not divulged your own,” Dorian tells her, once.

“Ah, but you are not most,” Lavellan pointed out.

“Too true, so I won’t say, but I will give you a look over my book that tells you how deeply and morbidly curious I am,” Dorian replied, and he indeed gave her that look. “Is it poisonous?”

“All things are poisonous - especially the color and texture of a person’s soul,” Lavellan had replied, “I could be lying - you wouldn’t know if I was telling the truth, either way.”

“Too true,” Dorian had mused, shifting enough to adjust the fall of his tunic to allow for the faintest, smallest hint of purple crocus to get a breath of fresh air.

Lavellan smiled, then.

Years later, the edges of the Iron Bull’s flower have abruptly begun to wither and silently curl in on themselves. Vivienne’s spider lilies shiver, their color fading. Dorian’s crocus begin to dry and shrink.

Everyone’s flowers are fading.

Solas - though no one there bears witness, except Lavellan - even, has a lost petal or two. And yet his asphodels remain, for the most part, vibrant.

Lavellan survives. Lavellan _always_ survives.

And her flower spills out - dormant for so long - through her survival.

“She always loses, always the loser, never the one who leaves, always the one who is left, the one who remains, the one who is placed down and turned back on,” Cole murmured, gently parting her dark hair to reveal a thin strand of dark red.

Vivienne and Dorian had both risen abruptly - blood?

Within days dark red, wine red, flowers push out from her hair, heavy and haunting.

“Amaranthus,” Bull said, when she finally woke up - and he was the one lucky enough to be at her side.

“I never do learn,” Lavellan replied, raising her arms slowly. He doesn’t stop her. Lavellan stares at the ceiling, the one arm left. “You’d think that after so much heartbreak - I would finally be left with nothing to hurt.”

“It’s a good thing,” Bull said, slowly rising to sit at the edge of her bed, turned to angle his back towards her. The dahlia, weakened, is already showing signs of recovery.

“Mine only blooms when I feel too full of heartbreak to bear it,” Lavellan said, capable of only reaching his lower back. “The rest of yours bloom when you’re happy or just feel good. I wish mine were so pleasant.”

“They’re pretty,” The Iron Bull said.

“If only they felt that way,” Lavellan said, eyes closing, she commanded, “Stay.”

“Alright,” Bull said, taking her hand and holding it in his, not looking at her - giving her his back as he stared into a corner of the room.

In her hand are two asphodel petals.

It is a good thing, to love. It is a painful thing to love. It is a brave thing, to love.

The dahlia on his back pushes itself open, dark purple flushing and renewing itself in the petals.

It is a hard thing, to love.

-

“I think,” Lavellan says, sitting next to Sera, “That _they_ think that if they put all of us together in one prison that we’ll scare each other straight.”

“Gross,” Sera says, picking her ear, “You figure this out now? And how’s that going? Any less of a criminal?”

“I still have pointy ears, so no,” Lavellan replied. “ _Think about it_ , no other prison in Thedas is co-ed like ours is. Or co-race. Also, we’re supposedly the highest threats.”

“The Iron Bull? I agree. Pentaghast? I agree. Leliana? I agree. Maxwell? Kaaras? Varric? Merrill? Aveline? Ogden? Not so much.”

“I’m going to point out that Kaaras and Merrill are here for the same reason that _we’re_ here and that’s race,” Lavellan says. “In any case, they put us all together in this one little jail fortress thingy and put us together with _other_ so-called criminals - “

“Fenris actively hunted people.”

“Tevinter slavers aren’t _people_ , they’re disgusting wastes of air.”

“And that is why most would argue that you belong here, continue.”

“ - in the hopes that we’d kill each other and prove to the world that we’re monsters at the same time doing their jobs for them,” Lavellan says. “Case in point - I overheard some guards talking about how long it’ll take for the Iron Bull to make me his prison bitch. Joke’s on them, _he’s a gentleman_ locked up in here for all the wrong reasons.”

“Yeah, I think we all kind of knew that,” Sera flicks dirt out from underneath her nail, “So how long did they give? You two’ve shared a cell since Solas was transferred to solitary in the basement and then they lost him. Idiots. The only really fucking dangerous one around here they lost staring at us like sideshow freaks.”

“Well, they keep saying it’s only a matter of time, but it’s been like - _four years_ since I got put here and the Iron Bull’s been here _forever_. Anyway, I overheard that they’re transferring Josephine to Herah’s cell block. Either Herah got one of the guards to break - _again_ \- or Josephine’s pulled a Josephine.”

“When’s Josephine going to pull a Josephine to get them to transfer Cole out of my cellblock? Bring Rocky back, Rocky was the shit.”


	60. Chapter 60

“Who are you texting?” Bull asks as Lavellan grins down at her phone. “It’s not me, and it isn’t Dorian, and Cole doesn’t use his phone.”

“My brother to tell him that I’m pregnant with Dorian’s baby and you back me up on this,” Lavellan says.

Bull doesn’t quite freeze because freezing would make him too vulnerable of a target. The proper reaction to the fear and apprehension Ellana’s brother elicits in people is to keep moving, to always keep moving, to - in fact - never stop moving because the moment you stop moving he will catch up to you and end you. Alternatively, if you keep moving he may predict your patterns and you may move straight into his trap.

“Yeah?” Bull says, continuing to stir his coffee - but with a newfound apprehension and careful overview of his internal state of affairs. Is his paranoia the normal paranoia, or has it really be Mahanon setting it all off? Has he been _actually_ feeling someone following him or is that leftover Ben-Hassrath training at work?

Did he or did he not imagine the TV remote being just askew?

“I thought your brother was on some deep cover mission for Evelyn,” Bull says, “No contact and stuff.”

“Well yes, but eventually he’ll get his phone back,” Ellana replies, “And when he does, _Baby!_ This way, he can’t say _no_ either - oh, hey, he’s answering. Maybe he was about to report in?”

Bull quickly moves away from the kitchen window, puts his back to the wall and presses himself into a corner of the kitchen. To this day he regrets not talking Ellana out of getting a house with so many fucking windows. Fuck natural lighting.

“Aw, he wants to know if I need him to be here for Baby’s birth,” Ellana laughs, “Silly Mahanon, that’s _months away!”_

Ellana hums, slowly turning her phone in her hands, “I’m going to say a tentative yes if he can swing it. It’d be close, but if he’s very efficient - “

“Your brother lives and breathes efficiency.”

“ - then he could probably make it in time. Remind me how many people are normally allowed in the room with you when you give birth? Do you think I could have Evelyn use her important person influence to get all three of you? Oh, but I do want Cole to be there too. And maybe Cassandra? Josephine! Herah, too!”

“You can’t fit everyone we know into the room with you when you give birth,” Bull says, “All the people we know barely fit in our _house_ when we invite them over.”

“That’s quitter talk,” Ellana says, “I don’t abide by quitter talk. What if Baby heard you?”

“Baby is three weeks or something, Baby is fine. Are we going to refer to it as Baby the entire time?”

“Jelly bean. Beanie baby. Baby carrot. Carrot stick. Pea pod. Pod person. _Ooh, pod person_.”

“Baby it is.”

-

“You shouldn’t make pregnant people run,” Evelyn says, “What if you hurt the baby?”

“Yeah,” Ellana says as she hand cuffs the theif, “What if you hurt our babies? Also, don’t steal from the Inquisition. That’s just terrible planning.”

“Just because two of us are on maternity leave and we’re at a pool relaxing doesn’t mean we’re any less equipped to take you down. Petty theft? _Really_?” Evelyn says, hauling up her catch, “I _defeated one of the most dangerous nationalist terrorists this century_.”

“Shame, shame, shame,” Ellana muses, “Evelyn, what do we do now that we’ve caught them? I mean - Bull and Cassandra always bring around extra handcuffs but we don’t have one of our cars.”

“The more important part is I need to sit down. Also pee,” Evelyn says. “Ellana can you hold them both and we can switch off?”

“Deal,” Ellana says immediately reaching out and taking the second thief by the scruff of the neck. “I can’t believe we outran Cullen and Cassandra.”

Evelyn groans, putting a hand over her belly and rubbing it, “I think my kid is going to be an adrenaline junky - I can feel it being happy in there. No! No chasing criminals until you’re sixteen! Fifteen if we’re pushing it.”

“Evelyn!” Cullen says, bursting onto the scene, and groaning when he sees Ellana with the two chastised thieves.

“Did you read their rights?” Cassandra asks.

“Yes,” Ellana answers dutifully handing them off to Cassandra. “Also we scolded them. This is good mommy practice, isn’t it? Cullen, go back and tell Bull and Dorian that their baby likes running after thieves. It’s definitely our Baby. I can now confirm that this Baby is definitely ours. Aside from the fact that it’s growing inside me and stuff.”

-

“We are not letting Baby eat _dirt_ ,” Dorian gapes at the two of them, “That is bad parenting. Even I know that.”

“No it isn’t,” Lavellan says calmly, “It builds their immune system.”

“Yeah, I ate dirt all the time as a kid. Literally. Aside from the whole getting beat up in super-spy training thing. Kids are curious - they just put shit in their mouths all the time. It’s how they _learn_ , Pavus,” Bull adds on, “It makes you strong and shit. Exposes you to germs. There are studies about how kids who were kept in bubbles do poorly on later in life - health wise in regards to fighting diseases off and all that.”

“Exactly, now look at me. I’m healthy. I’m fantastically healthy. When was the last time I got sick?”

“Last year,” Dorian says, “We had to send you to ICU. They had to re inflate your lungs _twice_. They were two seconds away from declaring you legally dead.”

“Alright, but that was a super-bug and I almost drowned, too,” Lavellan points out. “In the middle of January. That’s different. I was weakened by forces beyond my control.”

“We are not letting Baby eat dirt,” Dorian repeats.

Bull and Lavellan exchange sidelong glances, the corners of their lips twitching up momentarily before flattening out again.

Dorian glares at them, “ _Do not let Baby eat dirt when I’m not home_.”

“I make no promises,” Bull says, putting an arm over the back of Lavellan’s chair as Lavellan sits back looking incredibly pleased with herself.

“I shall tell no lies,” Lavellan continues, the two of them high-fiving each other while maintaining perfect eye contact with Dorian.

“To borrow one from Cassandra. _Ugh._ ”


	61. Chapter 61

Vivienne calmly enters the address Lavellan quietly handed to her into her GPS, sitting back into her seat as her car calculates the quickest route. Lavellan quietly stares out the passenger window.

“May I ask,” Vivienne says as she reverses out of her parking space, “Why you came to me with such an important issue?”

Lavellan sniffs, eyes red, but otherwise composed. “You’re the only one I could trust not to tell anyone else right away.”

“I’m no expert on pregnancy, darling,” Vivienne chides her.

“But you’ve spent almost your entire life at a militarized boarding school,” Lavellan points out, “I get the feeling that you’re much more experienced in matters like this. Women with pregnancy problems that they want to be kept secret.”

Vivienne can’t help but smile a little, “You aren’t wrong, my dear.”

Lavellan gently cups the swell of her belly, soft and only just obvious under her red dress.

“It was just so much blood,” Lavellan whispers, “And I remember reading that sometimes that happens and it doesn’t always mean something terrible for the baby or anything. And spotting happens, too - but it wasn’t spotting, I know it wasn’t. But what if it was something normal? What if it wasn’t that big of a deal? I don’t - I don’t want Dorian and Bull to get scared.”

“And I won’t?”

“You don’t get the kind of scared most people get, Vivienne.”

“Flatterer,” Vivienne muses, calmly speeding up as she gets onto the freeway, “When we get there, you should tell them.”

“After I see a doctor,” Lavellan says, “After they tell me what exactly is going on.”

Vivienne glances over to Lavellan’s face, “Did you tell _anyone_?”

“I texted my brother,” Lavellan says, face turned out the passenger window, hand rising to wipe at her face.

“Lavellan, your brother has limited access to communication. He wont get that message until possibly weeks later.”

Lavellan shrugs.

Viviene sighs, “Tell Herah, at the very least. Herah has the common sense to know what to do and she’ll know exactly when to tell Pavus and the Iron Bull.”

“Alright,” Lavellan says softly, “Alright.”

-

“You two are the only people I know,” Dorian says as Lavellan comes back to the living room, “That answer the door without even checking. Even Cassandra checks.”

“Realistically though,” Bull says, eying the stove as Kaaras sets the table, “What kind of idiot is going to walk up to our door and when we open it, see us, and decide - yeah, we’ll still try pulling some bullshit here? Who or what could we possibly open that door to that we can’t handle?”

“It’s not even about that, Kaaras back me up on this.”

“In one sense they’re right,” Kaaras says, turning a plate just so that it matches the others, “But in another sense - _just check the window_.”

“Why? We usually know who it is, in this case it was our delivery of pizza which will complement our soup and salad. Ah, pizza, the one thing I haven’t mastered yet. _Someday_ ,” Lavellan sighs fondly, handing the boxes over to Kaaras and going back to mind the soup. “I don’t need to check the window. I just have to open the door and if it’s someone who wants to start nonsense then all I have to do is punch them really hard like Grim taught me.”

“She does punch _really_ hard,” Kaaras concedes.

“What is it about you lot grown in the South that makes you completely nonsensical?” Dorian asks. “Don’t you dare say rustic charm.”

“Country folk manner,” Bull says, pouring glasses of water - no wine since Lavellan is pregnant and they’re all going to make a good showing of solidarity for her.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Dorian wrinkles his nose, “I’m surrounded in _country bumpkins_.”

-

Dorian gets a text that reads, only “ _Answer your phone in two minutes_.” It comes from an unknown number.

And as a common, modern person of reasonable sense, this would seem alarming. Indeed, truly, as someone of any sort of sense, this would be, at the very least, suspicious. Fishy. Strange. Peculiar. Odd. _Off_.

But Dorian is also an informal - now that he holds power in Tevinter, he had to resign his official post at the Inquisition - Inquisition member.

He’s used to unknown numbers sending him peculiar messages at all hours of the day.

So while he is apprehensive - he fires off a quick series of texts to Evelyn, Lavellan, Vivienne, and Cassandra, _just in case_. At least one of them would investigate if he suddenly disappeared. Vivienne would probably let it be but she would come and continue his research as one of the few people he half-way trusts to do some sort of decent job at it. - he does pick up his phone when it rings exactly two minutes later.

“Hello?”

“You’ve gotten my sister _pregnant_.”

Dorian throws his phone across the room - damn the repair costs - and runs.

As he’s out the door, he stops to very quickly dial Lavellan’s number on the office phone - “ _You told your brother? Did you want this baby to be down one father before it’s even born? How could you! I’m fleeing the country!_ ”

He hangs the phone up and pulls out the chord and is out of his offices within _minutes_. He actually _flies_ down the stairs, almost jumping down them four and five at a time. He’s out of the building and into his car in _minutes_.

It would be impressive if he weren’t already calculating the quickest coordinates to an airport and how fast he could get on a plane to Skyhold.

Evelyn would protect him from her best friend. He knows it. After all, she doesn’t want Mahanon to go to _prison_. Or whatever it is they’d pretend to say they’d do to him for assassinating Dorian.

Dorian doesn’t quite scream when something buzzes in his glove compartment.

He opens the glove compartment and finds a cell phone buzzing and ringing inside.

Dorian answers it like the cornered fool that he is.

“The next time you hang up on me,” Mahanon’s deadpan voice pierces straight through Dorian’s lungs, “I will hang _you_.”

“I should have stolen someone else’s car,” Dorian says.

“You should have,” Mahanon agrees, “But no one ever accused you of thinking ahead. Put the car in park. Turn it off and put your keys in your cupholder. I’ll hear it.”

Dorian does as he’s told because one Lavellan’s killed him with kindness and the other is just ready to kill him _period_.

“You’ve gotten my sister pregnant,” Mahanon repeats, leaving a significant pause that Dorian is almost afraid to break.

“Yes?”

Mahanon grunts on the other end, “She assures me that this was her idea.”

“Definitely yes.”

  
Mahanon is quiet - Dorian can’t even hear him _breathe_. This assumes that he does breathe, though - so -

“You will make a good parent,” Mahanon says. “Ellana has always been fond of children. When we were younger she would worry about not having them because of her distinct lack of sexual orientation. At the time, you understand, adoption was out of the question for single _elves_. And later, because the Iron Bull did not want to have any children of his blood. But now there is you and this child. This makes her happy.”

Dorian’s jaw is hanging open and if anyone were to pass by now and take a picture he’d look like the complete uncouth idiot all the tabloids here in Tevinter say he is.

“Children are hard,” Mahanon continues, “I will most likely not be back in time for the birth. Or the first few months. I do not doubt that you will be there to help - or that any of our _friends_ \- “

Mahanon says the word _friends_ like most people say the words _genital warts_.

“ - will also rise to the occasion. But I am warning you. It will be hard. Harder than you could ever imagine. You will be stressed. You will think that you aren’t doing it right. You will think you’ve made irrevocable mistakes. Don’t leave. Don’t give up.”

“Are you encouraging me?”

“Tell my sister that she isn’t supposed to know where I am and to stop sending care packages. Evelyn needs to tighten her security. Again.”

Mahanon hangs up immediately.

Dorian stares at the phone.

“I’ve _died_ ,” Dorian concludes. “I have _died_. This is what the other side is.”


	62. Chapter 62

Inquisitor Lavellan gives Leliana a single hard look. Bull is impressed with his composure.

“Did the Keeper survive?” Lavellan asks, and Leliana’s mouth twists -

“It is uncertain who survived, if any, Inquisitor,” Leliana says, “Clan Lavellan scattered - fled into the forests surrounding Wycome. Scouts, at this point, are reclaiming bodies.”

“Fine,” Lavellan says, dark eyes narrowing, “Are any of those bodies my Keeper?”

And then Lavellan snorts, “As if you’d know - I’m going to Wycome to find my Keeper.”

“Lavellan - you can’t just ride across Thedas to the Free Marches,” Cullen says, “I understand that this is hard for you, but you are needed here. And even if it were possible - think of the time between now and then. Moving across the continent to find someone who may already be dead could lose weeks, months. Time we do not have.”

“Only if I go with the Inquisition,” Mahanon says, raising a thin brow, “Only if I go through the ways you know.”

Leliana wryly looks down at the map.

Mahanon’s teeth flash, “My roads are not yours. As has been pointed out by so many, many shemlen before.”

“I’ll go with you,” Bull says, exchanging a glance with Cassandra and Dorian, “We can go with you. You have to admit - we’d travel faster than a whole escort. And we know how you move.”

Mahanon’s eyes flick over Bull and rest on Dorian for a long moment before he jerks his chin down.

“Very well.” Mahanon turns to Leliana and Cullen, “Between the two of you and Josephine, I fully believe you can handle this in my absence. After all - you do so anyway when I am in the field. I leave at dawn.”

And that’s how Bull finds himself, almost two weeks later, standing in the charred remains of what was once Clan Lavellan’s camp grounds, surveying the damage and mounds of freshly turned soil the Inquisition’s forces dug for graves.

He wonders how odd it was for them to dig graves rather than build pyres.

“No survivors found, ser,” A scout says, “We’ve been looking. Most of the tracks are gone.”

“I believe you,” Mahanon says, squeezing the scout’s shoulder, eyes scanning the foliage. “But you aren’t _me_. You stay here. Do whatever it is you’ve been doing. How many bodies?”

The next two days, Mahanon is a ghost around the Inquisition base set up just outside of Wycome -

He’s a pale shadow that flutters on the edges of the camp.

“What is he doing?” Cassandra asks Dorian.

“Looking,” Dorian answers, concern pressing down against his brow, “What for, I couldn’t tell you, seeing as he hasn’t told me.”

The Iron Bull doesn’t ask. It’s not his place to ask.

It’s his place to watch. To gather information. And to come to his own, silent, conclusions.

The conclusion, this time, comes to him.

Bull wakes up, hand reaching out and he knows he just missed catching something -

“You are the Iron Bull,” A low, voice - a woman’s voice - says.

Bull sits up, and he sees the faint glitter of an elf’s eyes just out of his reach. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust - the braziers of the Inquisition camp have burned low, and the thick canopy above blocks most of the moonlight.

“I’m hard to miss,” He says.

The woman hums, crouched low, “My hunter is in these woods. I have just returned from performing the last rites of our dead. Where is he?”

“You’re his Keeper,” Bull says.

The eyes shift down slightly as she nods.

Bull jerks his head in the direction of Dorian’s tent, “He’s looking for you, but he might be in that one.”

The woman hums, “My thanks.”

And she closes her eyes, disappearing into the darkness.

Bull fully expects the situation to be resolved by morning.

It isn’t.

Bull wakes up, expecting Mahanon ready to leave for Skyhold with his Keeper in tow, but when he gets out of his tent, he sees Mahanon alone and about to walk back into the forest.

The Keeper is nowhere in sight.

“Wait,” Bull says and Mahanon turns to him, gliding to stand closer to him, “You’re still looking for her?”

Mahanon narrows his eyes, “I never said my Keeper was a _her_.”

“She was here,” Bull says, “At least I think she was here. Your Keeper. She said she was performing the last rites or something. That she was looking for you, now.”

Mahanon’s eyes are sharp, volcanic kind of things.

“Hm,” Mahanon hums, abruptly taking off his quiver and holding it in his hands before setting it down on the forest floor. “Very well. Let her find me.”

Mahanon sits right in the middle of camp, mostly silent for the rest of the morning.

At around noon the woman from last night walks out of the forest - as if she had just appeared. No approach, no appearing in the distance, she just _is there_.

She smiles at the Iron Bull as she passes and whispers softly, just loud enough that he can hear, “Who am I to interrupt lovers?”

Bull almost laughs out loud. Instead he just nods at her.

Mahanon rises and the two embrace.

“Keeper,” Mahanon says, as they part, lowering his head. The woman touches her forehead to his.

“Hunter,” She replies, “And brother.”

“Sister,” Mahanon’s mouth curves into an unbelievable and soft smile. “You have always been too spiteful to die.”

“You spoil reunions so easily,” the Keeper says, kissing his cheek, “And introductions, too.”

Mahanon stands back, “You already met the Iron Bull. Though I doubt you were polite enough to give your name.”

The Keeper smiles beatifically.

“What do names mean when your thoughts on a person are formed with silence and gestures alone? Hello, we meet again. Daylight suits you better than darkness.”

Mahanon swiftly kicks the back of the woman’s leg. She dodges, using the movement go come closer to the Iron Bull.

“Thanks, I think. Whatever that means,” Bull raises his eyebrows, “I’m the Iron Bull. You know that.”

“My brother has told me about you,” She says.

“And he’s told us scant to nothing about you.”

“That’s how we prefer it,” She nods. “Will you ask?”

“Are you actually going to answer?”

Mahanon makes a sharp sound, “Don’t indulge her. She’s already a brat. Her name is Ellana. Don’t get deceived by her. Ellana, this is Dorian. You know Dorian.”

“She knows me?” Dorian’s eyebrows raise.

“Of course I know you,” Ellana says, turning away from the Iron Bull to look at Dorian, “I saw you kissing my brother.”


	63. Chapter 63

“I feel like you’re not giving me enough credit,” Lavellan says, “Sera, I feel as though you are being incredibly judgemental of me right now.”

“That’s because I am being incredibly  judgmental of you right now.”

“Oh, well then. Could you stop?”

“Give me one reason.”

“You’re making me very uncomfortable.”

“You’re making _me_ very uncomfortable.” Sera closes her eyes and turns her head away, pulling the lip of her cap lower over her eyes. “Don’t stand next to me. If we weren’t fucking roommates, I swear I’d bolt right now.”

“I don’t know why you’re uncomfortable,” Lavellan says.

“ _You just_ ,” Sera quickly lowers her voice, leaning in towards Lavellan, “You just stole someone’s dog.”

“This dog has no person,” Lavellan says, adjusting her hold on the dog in her arms.

Its fur is matted, almost black with dirt, and it looks like a moving mass of actual garbage. It smells worse than one, though.

Sera cringes.

“It has a collar.”

Granted, you can barely see it underneath the fur.

“You cut it off a leash.”

“Does it _look_ like its been taken care of? Does this look like a dog with a person?” Lavellan says, “Of course I cut it off its leash. _Look at this dog.”_

 _“Listen, I get where you’re coming from_ , but I just bailed you out of prison and the first thing you did was cut a dog off a leash,” Sera points out.

“It was a minor infraction.”

“It’s assault and frankly, we’re both lucky that you’ve somehow managed to get some really scary and powerful people on our side so that it wouldn’t stick on your record. This is the shit you get kicked out of school for. I’ve poured too much money into my degree to get kicked out now.”

“You can’t possibly be getting mad at me - I’ve seen you on _TV_ ,” Lavellan points out.

“Those are protests. That’s different, you got into a bar fight.”

“In protest of discrimination! They asked me and the Iron Bull to move to the back of the bar! _We were basically going to be seated by a urinal_. That’s disgusting.”

“I thought you weren’t trying to fuck him?”

“I’m _not_ , Sera. Don’t use such coarse language in front of the dog, it’s been through enough.”

They actually can’t tell the gender of the dog because it’s so dirty. Sera casts a nervous glance around - the second she sees a cop she’s out of here.

That’s sort of a lie - she’d try to drag Lavellan along. They’d both be arrested, probably.

“We just met there because it’s close to campus and kind of quiet,” Lavellan says, “Also all of our friends were there, too. The friends we share, I mean. Surprisingly, we have a lot of shared friends and I don’t know how we haven’t met before now.”

“Really?” Sera blinks, raising her eyebrows, “Aside from Dalish, your old RA?”

“He knows Leliana and Josephine,” Lavellan ticks off on her fingers, hefting the dog up higher as if it were a baby and not a giant matted garbage pile, it quietly licks her cheek and snuffles at her ear. “He also knows Sutherland, and I know a few of Sutherland’s crew from when I used to do track.  It was a nice surprise reunion.”

“Cool, I guess, easier in for you?”

“Definitely. I knew he’d be a good person to have as a friend, you’d like him, Sera. He’s very interesting.”

“He’s old, of course he’s interesting,” Sera replies. “Are you going to carry that dog home?”

“As opposed to what, Sera? Leaving it?” Lavellan tightens her hold on the dog.

“Giving it a bath somewhere? Dropping it off at a vet? A pound? Someone qualified to check if it has something?”

“I’ll give it a bath at home. And we can ask Cullen. He’s from a farm.”

“That just means he can tip cows. Nothing about dogs.”

“A farm in the Ferelden countryside, Sera, get with it. Of course he can diagnose a dog. It’s in his _blood_. Ask anybody.”

-

Cassandra does not like to use the word _nervous_. She does not like to be nervous, she does not like being called _nervous_ , she does not like the word _nervous_ in application to either herself or any situation she finds herself in.

So she is not nervous when she gets a phone call to bail the Iron Bull out of jail, _again_. She is not nervous as she drives to the police station closest to the campus he is currently lecturing at, she is not nervous as she walks into the police station and begins the now routine ritual of getting him out of jail and starting the process of covering for him.

The fights are, almost always, not his fault and in Cassandra’s mind, provoked and or deserved on the other person’s behalf.

One probably should not be provoking the large, well fit man, with only one eye and obvious scars from _combat_ , and being surprised when they lose miserably.

Cassandra does get nervous, when she sees the Iron Bull walk out of holding, waving at someone she cannot see; he’s smiling as he waves, and as he turns she sees a glimpse of his face. He looks _dopey_.

Now, _now_ , she is possibly _nervous_.

She waits until they’re outside.

“Swear to me that you did not find a possible _booty call_ in jail.”

“I swear to you that I didn’t pick someone up in jail,” He says. This is mostly for Cassandra’s comfort. It works. A little.

“She picked _me_ up on campus,” Bull says and Cassandra reflexively punches him at about a quarter strength to make sure it gets through. “ _Ow_. She’s not my student, she’s a legal adult, and she picked me up in not the way you think. No exchanges of bodily fluids. Promise, Pentaghast. Relax.”

“You can walk home,” Cassandra says, but she waits for him to slowly get into her car and adjust the seat before reversing out of her parking space and driving out of the lot.

“She’s one of Dalish’s friends,” Bull says, “Dalish brought her along last night when we went to try out a new bar. And it just so happened that while the drinks were pretty good the management was racist. She’s really interesting, I think you’d like her.”

Cassandra grunts.

“She’s Cullen’s house mate,” Bull adds on. “We actually know a lot of the same people.”

 _“_ Is she the blonde one?”

“No.”

“Lavellan?”

“Yeah?”

Cassandra groans, “You’re dating Solas’ child? He hates working with law enforcement as a consultant as it is. You had to go and start courting his _pride and joy_?”

“I’m not dating - _Solas has a kid_?”


	64. Chapter 64

“You’re not a God,” Cullen sounds surprised when the girl tumbles out of the God-trap.

She blinks up at them, pushing wild black hair out of her face, “Well, you aren’t a human or a dog or a cat or a mouse, while we’re naming things that we aren’t.”

“You're one of Memory’s girls, aren’t you?” Bull asks, helping Leliana and Sera untangle the netting and wards that are still caught on her.

“Yes,” She answers, “I’m his favorite girl, his absolute favorite. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

“What’s your name, Concept?” Dorian asks, holding his hand out to the girl and helping her up.

“It’s Irrelevant,” She answers, adjusting her clothes.

“I hardly see how,” Leliana says, “I’d like something to call you by, if anything.”

“Oh, _no_ , sorry - I always forget how confusing it must be for things that aren’t Concepts,” Her cheeks tinge pink, “That’s what I am. _Irrelevant_. My brother is _Irreverent_ , which is something slightly off kilter but don’t let that fool you - Memory loves it to pieces, calls us cheeky brats but he doesn’t mind at all. Ah - Irrelevant is what I am, and that isn’t me being depreciating about myself, mind. I think I’m quite splendid, personally. But can one ever truly know oneself personally? Is that some sort of contradiction or redundancy? Speaking of redundancy, are you all Hunters? I know you’ve set the God-Trap and all. And. Well, _you’re a God-Eater_.”

Irrelevant glances up at the Iron Bull and smiles, wiggling her fingers a little, “ _Hi_.”

“Hi,” Bull says, smiling back.

Leliana quickly and sharply kicks him in the back of his good knee.

“Are you anything related to Random?” Dorian asks.

“Possibly, does it matter? No. I don’t think so,” Irrelevant says, “Ah - by mortal measures I’m called Lavellan. I know you didn’t ask. It doesn’t matter. I think you can start to see why I’m Irrelevant. Irrelevant can mean so many things in different contexts and uses. It drives Memory absolutely _frothing_ at times. Oh, ice cream floats. That sounds wonderful. Orange cream, anyone??”

“I can bet,” Leliana muses, “We were actually trying to catch a minor chaos spirit - do you know her? She’s evoked by the name Sera.”

“Sera! You’ve been after Sera! Oh! She tricked me, didn’t you know? That’s how I got into your trap to start with, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Well. It isn’t all bad. _Hi_ ,” Lavellan waves again, shyly at the Iron Bull, “I’ve never been allowed to talk to God-Eaters before. My brother, Irreverant, often tells me that I’m just annoying enough to perhaps be a decent enough appetizer for one - regardless of whether I’m actual God-stuff or not.”

“Do you want to find out? I bite at request,” Bull tells her at the same time both Leliana and Dorian hit him.

Lavellan - Irrelevant - laughs and looks at Cullen, pointing at Bull, “I like him. Is he always this fun?”

-

“Guys, you all met Lavellan, right? She’s a EMT,” Bull lightly shoves Rocky and Grim to the side to make room for Lavellan at the plastic covered picnic table, “Lavellan, I’m pretty sure you know everyone on the squad.”

“Yup, hi again. It’s always so awkward at these cross-department team-building things,” Lavellan says, “It’s nice to know people from the other branches though. You’re my favorite fire crew.”

“Thanks,” Skinner says, then after a heavy moment of deliberation she hands Lavellan a stick with barbecue skewered onto it.

Lavellan takes it, “I know a few people from the police but they’re busy socializing. Like well adjusted people. _Weird_.”

“Right?” Krem laughs, “Haven’t seen you around, lately.”

“Well they’re thinking about transferring me to a different route and time,” Lavellan says, graciously accepting the plastic cup of soda Grim pours out and hands to her.

Everyone shuffles around to make room for Bull at the head of the picnic table.

“They can’t move you, your’e the only one who can handle this fool. Stitches is on vacation,” Dalish says.

“Watch it,” Bull says.

“It’s the truth,” Dalish huffs.

Lavellan laughs, “My replacement is a quick learner - she’s transferring over from the Kirkwall route. Her name is Merrill, she’s actually my senior. You’d like her. She got into a fight with one of her route-mates so they decided to maybe switch it up a little.”

“Damn, if she’s dealt with Hawke’s crew then she’s got to be good,” Rocky whistles.

“I’d rather have you,” Bull says and the entire table coos. Bull shoots them a glare.

Lavellan beams.

“I’d rather stay here, too,” Lavellan says, picking barbecue off of the stick and onto a plate, “Before I transfer, you’ll show me the jaws of death right? You keep telling me you’d show them to me eventually but there’s never time.”

“You suck at this shit,” Krem says.

“You deserve every single moment of suffering that comes at you from this,” Dalish says.

“You’re an idiot and you should have opened with the firehouse dog,” Skinner says.

Lavellan turns around, smacking Rocky’s face with her hair, “ _You told me the firehouse dog was a lie!”_

-

“You could have told me that you had a criminal record!” Bull hisses, pressing Lavellan flat to the ground, curling his arms around her and ducking his head down. They’ve got to run out of bullets eventually, right?

“Well _you_ could have told me that you’re a spy who betrayed his country!” Lavellan snaps, furiously texting everyone they know. Bull’s never been more grateful for how fast she can text.

“Fine, but how the hell do you bring that kind of thing up?”

“How do you bring up a criminal record?” Lavellan returns, “Alright, I think Cassandra and Sera are on their way.”

“Together?”

“Of course not - separately. Sera’s got her gang and Cassandra’s got her bare fists. And the full and wrathful force of the law. Wait a second - _how did you become law enforcement if you’re an ex spy?_ ”

“How did you become a professor if you’ve got a record?”

“I know some people!”

“Well maybe I know some people too!”

Bull can fell Lavellan glaring at her phone, “We can argue about this later. Right now they’re messing up our house and we just moved in literally _three days ago_.”

“Shit, the TV.”

“It still has the stickers on it, Bull. _The stickers_.”

He can feel her body tensing up underneath his.

“You’re going to do something stupid.” It isn’t exactly a question.

“Well. We don’t know who they’re here _for_ ,” Lavellan points out. “Hey, babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You wanna find out how I got my criminal record?”


	65. Chapter 65

"Are you nesting?” Bull asks, staring at the floor and every other flat surface of Dorian’s room when he opens the door.

“Do you ever learn to knock?” Dorian asks, examining a bag of diapers and throwing it into a large cardboard box, “So what if I am?”

“Baby is _seven months away_ ,” Bull says, “And I did knock. Then I opened the door.”

“You’re supposed to wait for someone to say _come in_ ,” Dorian snorts, “You and Lavellan deserve each other.”

“Thanks,” Bull grins, nudging a large cardboard box bearing the image of a baby bouncer on it, “You know, normally, people hold baby showers to get this kind of stuff.”

“Well I’ll think of more stuff for the baby shower.”

“I don’t doubt it, but Lavellan and I only own the one house. This room was supposed to be for you, not for the baby. We have a clear room one door over, right across from Cole.”

“I know that, too,” Dorian wrinkles his nose, comparing what looks like two identical diaper bags.

“Isn’t that a waste of Tevinter tax payer money?” Bull asks, clearing a space on Dorian’s bed to sit down on.

“Is that a protest?”

“Nah, I just wanted to make sure you knew you were abusing your state position in a good way. Normally the person who’s actually carrying the baby inside of them does the nesting.”

Dorian laughs, throwing his head back before staring at Bull incredulously, “Does _anything_ about this situation seem _normal_ to you? I’ve gotten your wife pregnant with an immaculate birth because I am gay and uninterested. _Your wife is a virgin mother_.”

“Well not _virgin_ , just not from your dick.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up, Bull shrugs.

“Your dick?”

“No, kadan and I don’t work that way,” Bull gives Dorian a _look_ , “You know that.”

“Well _who else_?”

“Someone she had a thing with as a teenager,” Bull says, “She didn’t like it, so she called it off and she hasn’t ever since. Anyway - leave something for her to nest on. When the mood hits her in about - five or so months.”

“We’ll see,” Dorian says, “Which of these bags compliments my eyes better?”

-

She finds him sitting on the steps of the back porch, a beer gathering condensation next to him as he stares out into their yard. She watches him for a while before opening the screen door and sitting next to him.

This is a ritual they’ve done a hundred a thousand times. With and without the beer, the screen, the steps, the porch, the house, the yard.

“I didn’t know you wanted a kid so bad.”

Lavellan looks up, at him, not touching him; not yet. She sits with her elbows on her thighs, bare toes curled as she breathes in the early morning air.

“I don’t,” She says and he leans back onto his broad, considerate, tired palms.

“You do,” Bull says, nodding to himself.

“I _don’t_ ,” Lavellan repeats, waiting for him to look at her. When he finally does she turns so she can face him with her body. “I don’t want kids that much. I want kids - I would like kids. Or just one kid, singular. That is something I want. But it is not something I need. A life with you, a life with you in it, a life where _we are in it together, as a team_. That is something I want. That is something I am slowly understanding I do need. A life with someone who understands, a life with someone who supports, a life with someone I want to stay with, a life with someone I feel I must return to at the end of the day. I could live without children. I could be happy without children.”

She leans forward and raises her hand to his face, “I could not be happy without you. And you are a good, kind, selfless man. You know that. You would have done your level best to father children for me and you would have hated it. You don’t want to father children. That level of culpability and reflection is not something you are ready to handle. So having your child - through natural methods or surrogacy, will always be out of the question. But the situation we are facing is different. You’ve never had a problem with caring for those who are not of you.”

Bull closes his eye and lets out a low grumbling sigh.

The thing about being supported and and understood is that it goes two ways.

“You can say no,” She reminds him, “You have always been able to say no.”

“You want this.”

“I want you more.”

Bull leans all the way back, elbows folding until he’s almost lying down on the porch. She goes to lie down next to him, enough space between that he can move away if he wants. There isn’t much room for distance on their porch, but she gives it freely.

“I,” Bull says, as she watches his eye flick underneath his eyelid - searching and reading and understanding himself, “Am alright with this. I wasn’t lying earlier. I am not lying now.”

“Alright.”

“I don’t think this will change.”

“Alright.”

“I want you, too.”

Lavellan smiles and rests her hand on his chest, over his heart. His hand covers hers and she closes her eyes.

They lie there for a few moments of slow easing and breathing and finger-twitches and breezes.

“The toaster is burning,” Bull says.

“The toast in the toaster is burning,” Lavellan corrects him. Bull’s index finger taps against the back of her hand, three strong touches of bone to bone.

“The Kid would eat it anyway.” She smiles, making no move to get up.

“Probably shouldn’t let him. I’d be a bad sister, wouldn’t I? _Or_ , it could just help him build stronger stomach stuff.”

Bull slowly sits up, “I’m going to make him real food before the government attempts to take away our custody and we have to ask Evelyn to intervene for us again.”

“Alright,” Lavellan says, curling up on the floor, laughing as Bull stoops down to pick her up, “I was enjoying my spot though. We were having a moment.”

Bull hefts her up over his shoulder, “Yeah, yeah. Moment over. Watch your head.”


	66. Chapter 66

Bull wakes up and congratulations himself on not pissing immediately.

Mahanon’s sharp face scowls at him, lying next to him on the bed.

“My sister,” Mahanon’s voice is - as always - deceptively soft and disturbingly flat, “Believes that she is very humorous.”

“That's fine,” Bull says as he consciously lowers his heart rate and works on relaxing all of his muscles. Mahanon can sense tension and it makes him want to attack more. It also entertains him when it doesn’t annoy him. Most things, when the aren’t annoying to the man are very entertaining. There’s rarely an in-between that _isn’t_ absolute frothing rage. “Sometimes I let her think that she’s making logical eating choices.”

Mahanon’s lips twitch upwards and Bull catches the sound of Ellana through the baby monitor, cooing and humming.

“Welcome back to the land of people with social security numbers,” Bull says.

Mahanon wordlessly tugs at his hands, tied above his head to the headboard. “Untie me and you can keep yours.”

“What? Master assassin can’t untie some ropes?” Bull jokes, but sits up and works on the knots anyway.

“Not when I’m unconscious, _no_ ,” Mahanon replies, “Nor when she’s taped three of my fingers together. Stop giving her tips, it creates an unfair disadvantage for me.”

“I’m helping to sharpen your skills, you home grown amateur,” Bull replies, freeing the last knot. Mahanon immediately sits up, quickly turning his face to give Bull a kiss on each cheek before sliding out of the bed and pulling on one of his sister’s maternity sweaters. “Seriously though, welcome back. She misses you when you’re not around.”

“She misses having one more person to torment,” Mahanon says, sitting back down on top of the covers, apparently satisfied now that he has Ellana’s sweater. Mahanon begins to fix his hair. “Parenthood is good to you. I am glad. I was concerned. It seems that this was unnecessary.”

“Thanks?”

“You are welcome,” Mahanon crosses his legs then moves back towards the headboard and shoves his legs underneath the covers, wiggling his toes. “Has the child vomited on Pavus yet?”

“Yup, once directly onto Dorian’s mouth.”

Mahanon’s smile has teeth to it.

The last memory Bull consciously allows himself to remember featuring that smile was the night before he and Lavellan got married.

“Have you met Imekari?”

“You called the child _Baby_ before birth, now you call the child _Imekari_ after birth, tell me - at any point was a _name_ chosen?”

“You call Imekari _the child_ , I don’t think you’re one to talk.”

“That’s how I refer to everyone. My sister, the child,” Mahanon gives Bull a pointed look, “My sister’s attachment.”

“Well, it’s better than what you call Dorian.”

“The Dramatic, yes.”

“Were you able to see the baby?”

“No, I got to the driveway and my sister ambushed me. I’d be impressed if _we weren’t on the phone the entire time_.”

-

Ellana jerks awake when she hears a crackle over the monitor. She’s already halfway up, unbuttoning her sleeping shirt when she hears Bull’s low voice -

“ _Shhh, Imekari_. You know your mama’s sleeping. Why are you awake, huh? Why are you being a brat tonight? Not hungry, nah? _Shhh.”_

Her body relaxes as she slowly lowers herself back down onto the bed, arm spreading out to the now cool space on the bed where Bull was before.

She is so, so lucky.

Ellana smiles up at the ceiling, listening to Bull’s voice as he soothes the baby - a mix of every language all at once, even Dalish.

She hopes that they’re doing right by this child. She hopes that this child grows up to understand why their family is so different, and why it works.

Ellana rolls onto her side - ah, the freedom to _roll!_ The freedom to stretch and contort her body in every way she wants! What a luxury! She pulls Bull’s pillow to her chest, mashing her face into it as she sprawls in the middle of the bed.

If he came in here right now and saw her smiling like this instead of sleeping he’d shake his head at her.

He starts to sing softly, and Ellana allows herself to drift off to that. She’ll have to wake up in maybe half an hour or so to feed the baby, but for now she can sleep.

-

“I thought you don’t know Baby’s sex yet,” Cullen asks as Ellana watches him unloading paint cans from the back of his truck. “Are you sure you’re alright with leftover paint?”

“I like to be inspired,” Ellana replies, “Besides - what does Baby’s sex have to do with what color paint I use?”

“That’s a good point.”

“Cullen, were you trying to get me to reveal what I know about Baby so that you could win a bet?”

“Possibly,” Cullen says, “I’m not very good at it, am I?”

“No, you should leave that sort of sneaky talk to Evelyn. How is she?”

“Two emails away from taking the truck and driving across international boards to Skyhold to wrest control back from Herah,” Cullen answers, “We all know Herah’s got a good handle on everything, but - _Evelyn_.”

Ellana nods, “She’s entered that stage of her pregnancy, has she? It’s better than last time, though, isn’t it? Last time she was also so agitated about future parenting situations that she had you running drills. Now you know what it’s like to be parents so - “

“No, now we’re running drills involving the twins,” Cullen says.

Ellana looks baffled, “You poor man, how did you even stay awake on the drive over?”

“I brought one of the dogs,” Cullen says.

Ellana’s face moves from pitying to cross, “And you didn’t tell me _sooner_? Cullen!”

She storms over to the side of the truck and rips the door open, exclaiming, “Beauty!”, as the pit bull wakes up with a deep booming _boof!_ and jumps out of the car to excitedly jump-trot in circles around Ellana.

Cullen makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat, “Beauty, _calm_.”

Beauty sits, tail wagging as she beams up at Ellana.

“I’m going to move the paint cans to your porch,” Cullen says, “Bull and Dorian can move them inside when you figure out what you want to do with them.”

“Alright, thank you Cullen. I could’ve just gotten them myself you know,” Ellana says.

“It gives Evelyn and me a break from each other,” Cullen says, “Don’t worry about it. I think if the two of us were in the house together for a minute longer one of us would have snapped. I know she’s pregnant and the twins can be hard to manage, but her nerves are wearing on _my_ nerves and both of our anxiety is getting to the twins and it’s really just a vicious cycle.”

“All couples need time apart to keep their heads clear,” Ellana nods, “It’s just common sense.”


	67. Chapter 67

“Well,” Lavellan says after a long pregnant pause, disturbed only by the rattling of their chains and the sounds of the uneven road they’re on, “This could have gone a lot worse.”

“ _How_?” Sera and Dorian both ask, glaring in the direction of the narrow containment unit she’s locked in.

“I could have lost the other arm,” Lavellan replies.

Which is, they conceded, true.

“The good news is that nothing was stolen,” Lavellan says. “So we _did_ succeed in that part.”

“The bad news is that the police think that _we’re_ the terrible, shit at their job thieves,” Dorian says. “I can’t abide by people thinking I’m bad at my job. Also that my job is thieving. I’m downright _insulted_.”

“It’s a decent living if you know what you’re doing,” Sera shrugs.

“More good news,” Lavellan says, “Our entire crew wasn’t captured.”

“No, the rest of our crew was forced to scatter like roaches while we’re being thrown in prison,” Sera groans, “I regret the day that I became your Jenny. Do you hear me? _I regret it_.”

“No you don’t,” Lavellan says, peacefully smiling, “Because you’d miss out on moments like these.”

“The three of us about to go to prison for a crime that didn’t happen but we’re being blamed for anyway?”

“No, surviving an armored vehicle you’re handcuffed and chained to successfully flip over approximately twenty times before landing solidly on its right side.” Lavellan winds her chains around her hands and grips them hard.

“Oh _you didn’t_ ,” Sera says at the same time that Dorian swears quickly, vehemently, and _profusely_ \- not to mention, most importantly - _fluently_ , in seven different almost dead languages.

A loud teeth and bone and guts rattling _boom_ throws them all and the car does indeed begin to flip. No one is counting.

Sera groans, “I’m going to fucking vomit.”

“Please don’t, you’re chained to the containment unit directly in front of me.”

“Don’t worry, it’s mostly just crackers and tuna.”

“ _Please don’t_.”

There’s loud sounds - even through the thick metal car walls - of fighting on the other side.

“I can’t believe you pulled the Chargers.”

“The Chargers are a solid fourth of my crew, of course I pulled the Chargers,” Lavellan says. “Besides, it’s a good thing now, right? They’re the only ones who didn’t have to scatter.”

“Oh, I’m never going to live this one down,” Dorian mutters under his breath, hitting his knuckles against his forehead. “Tevinter B is going to lord this over me for _years_.”

“So what? Skinner and Grim are going to call me a wuss for not being able to slip these,” Sera shakes the chains angrily. “Damn it, Lavellan. You’re making us lose face.”

The sounds of metal sheering against metal interrupt the rest of the conversation. Everyone winces - Sera and Dorian closest to the back of the car shielding their eyes, as sparks fly.

“Someone order a rescue?” Rocky says as soon as the doors are opened.

Skinner and Dalish are immediately climbing inside.

“Hey, Boss,” Bull crouches down to angle his head so he can peer up at Lavellan in the farthest cage, “How’s it hanging?”

“Well, I’m mostly holding myself up by calf and thigh strength,” Lavellan says, “So I’m not technically hanging. Nice explosion, new formula, Rocky?”

“Definitely,” Rocky says, “Got worried I didn’t make it weak enough for a second there. You guys were about two feet away from falling into a construction zone full of steel beams.”

Sera grunts when Skinner gets the chains off, immediately falling straight into Dalish’s arms.

“Yeah, thanks, _whatever_ ,” Sera grumbles, practically leaping out of Dalish’s arms and out of the car, “I could’ve gotten it.”

“Sure,” Skinner says, both women getting to work on Dorian’s cell.

“Maybe get the Boss out first,” Bull suggests, leaning against the back of the car. It creaks ominously.

“Tell me you aren’t the only thing holding that side of the car from plummeting to a steely death,” Dorian says.

“Nah, we’ve got Stitches, Grim, and Krem sitting on top, too,” Bull says. “But seriously, get the Boss out first.”

“My leg strength isn’t what it used to be,” Lavellan says, feet planted against the walls of the cage, “But it’s fine if you get Dorian out first. Though, out of curiosity, has anyone gone after the truck with all the evidence?”

A chorus of _shit_ can be heard from outside.

Bull shrugs, “We’ll figure that out eventually.”

-

Bull wakes up to a cold hand on his face - it’s instinct for him to react _poorly_ , but it’s also ritual for the other person to dodge.

“What’s wrong?” Bull says as soon as his head properly clears and takes in the situation.

Lavellan’s face is uncomfortably hard when his eye meets hers, body loose and ready. For what?

“He’s alive,” She says softly.

There’s only one person she could mean.

Bull’s legs are already moving out from underneath he covers, but as he moves to stand, her hand lightly touches against the front of his chest. He watches her, carefully, as she slowly pushes him back down.

Her hand is light over his chest, cold. She looks at him, and when he doesn’t move, she climbs over him, lying down on his other side.

Bull quickly reaches over and pulls the blankets to let her get under.

Lavellan slides against his side, head resting on his chest as she curls up.

“Am I supposed to be mad?” She asks. “How do you deal with the dead who come back?”

“I don’t know,” Bull’s dead have generally stayed dead. He isn’t aware of any who’ve come back. His life is colored with experts in death. “Are you mad?”

Lavellan presses her cheek against his heart, “Yes. And sad. And confused. I don’t want to believe it.”

“Do you want me to start looking?”

He feels her nod, soft breathing that quickly sounds like not-yet-crying.

Bull rubs his hand up and down her back.

“Where did you hear this from?”

“Leliana’s people caught word - she’s been looking ever since he disappeared and we found out he forged his documents.”

The Inquisition has too strong a history of people lying about their identities. Or using fake ones.

Bull is no exception.

The only difference is that Lavellan forced his to become real.

“I’ll meet up with her and we’ll work out a plan,” Bull says. “Do you want to talk about how you’re angry?”

“No,” Lavellan lies, pulling the blanket over her head.

“Alright. Is it alright if I talk about how _I’m_ angry?”

Lavellan nods after a brittle pause, “Yes. Tell me why you’re angry.”


	68. Chapter 68

Kaaras is helping him pack up his old research material to make more room for Baby’s things. Dorian can’t help but feel the softest pang of regret and half-bitter memories. When he was still a researcher and not an active political figure he wasn’t. He wasn’t _miserable_.

He loved his research. He still loves his research. He loves the fighting and the scrambling for funding and the debates and the problems that come up and working hard to fix them and the feeling of pure euphoric laughter when the solution seems to present itself like a cat - sprawling out in the sun after weeks of being away, as if to say _what? Were you looking for me?_

There are parts of that he can apply and come close to feeling now that he’s in the Senate. But it isn’t the same, it is nowhere near the same.

Too much hinges on the problems he solves and the way he does it. As in most fields there are many roads to success, and even _passable results._ But in this particular field of study and expertise every road is half some sort of failure.

Dorian holds the books in his hands, regretful as he packs them away into the moving boxes. Most of it will be going into storage or will be held at Skyhold, the rest he’s giving to his friends.

Kaaras’ voice is a near sigh as he holds a stack of notebooks in his hands, gently like he’s holding some small and sleeping animal.

“It’s a shame that you don’t have more time for this,” Kaaras says, lowering the notebooks into a box, “I had always hoped that after the war with Corypheus you’d go back and revisit your analysis of the chemicals used by the Mortalitasi and how they differ from standard embalming techniques.”

Dorian agrees - it was one of his earliest published works and, honestly, it is a fantastic mess. It shows his newness in every way. A lot of his research later on, however, did borrow from it and in turn Dorian was almost entirely certain he was on the brink of something in how they were all related. It was something he vaguely broached in his other papers and studies, but something he considered a side project.

He pauses, mind scrambling to a stop at the same time Kaaras’ seems to. The man flushes deeply and Dorian feels his mouth trying to pull into a broad grin.

“Kaaras?”

Kaaras looks away, suddenly _fascinated_ with the empty bookshelf.

“You said you weren’t familiar with my research since it was so far removed from your own,” Dorian says. “You told me that  you hadn’t the foggiest idea of what field I was in.”

“Ah, erm. Yes. I did? I did. Um.”

“Kaaras.” Dorian quietly pushes aside some boxes with his foot as he crosses the study to the man, leaning around him to try and catch a glimpse of his face. “Kaaras, were you secretly a fan?”

Kaaras’ blush, somehow and inexplicably, deepens even further.

“Kaaras, did you tell me you didn’t know anything about me because you were embarrassed to say you’d followed my publications?”

“ _Well you can’t just tell someone that you’re an incredible fan of their research theories without sounding like a complete and total stalker!_ ” Kaaras bursts out, turning to face him with a completely troubled and incredibly sweet look on his face. “I didn’t want you to not like me! It was _your second paper_ , Dorian. What kind of peculiar person remembers a person’s _second paper out of college_?”

“You’re a _fan_ ,” Dorian crows out, delighted. Kaaras attempts a quick retreat, but Dorian’s arms catch around his waist as he pushes to his toes to kiss the back of the man’s flushed and warm neck. “Did you want an autograph?”

Kaaras groans, “I had to say something. I had to open my dumb mouth.”

“We’ve known each other for almost - what? Five? Six?”

“Seven.”

“ _Seven whole years!_ And this entire time you were hiding this.”

“I wasn’t - I wasn’t _hiding_ it. I was just _not talking about it_.”

“Tell me that you had notes. Tell me you had rebuttals.”

“We have to finish packing, Dorian,” Kaaras attempts to distract him - it’s a valid excuse, Dorian admits. But Kaaras isn’t trying to pull away, either. “Herah is bringing the truck by in two hours and we still have to finish packing your lab equipment. How did you get a fume hood into your apartment, anyway?”

“The building is Cadash operated - Malika lets me get away with everything,” Dorian replies. “Fine, I’ll let you off for now. But later we’re going to have a discussion. Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to _debate_? And now I find out that not only is there a suitable debate partner at hand, but he’s also familiar with the subject? I’m almost bursting with joy.”

-

“What are you thinking?” Ellana asks, curled up next to him.

Mahanon’s finger gently strokes a line down Baby’s sleeping face, a ghost of a touch. Baby doesn’t stir.

“I got a message to him,” Mahanon says, waiting for Ellana to sit up on the bed. She curls in close and he leans into her, their faces pressed against each other. Her nose and the curve of her cheek against the side of his head.

This is how they always should be.

He misses her. But he is not made for places, he is made for paths.

Ellana, herself, is made for people and not places.

Neither of them are one for staying, but returning.

“You found him?” Ellana whispers, slipping into the half-lost language of their kin, supplemented by the own made up language of twins. “How? Did you tell Evelyn?”

“I told her that I was on his trail,” Mahanon replies, leg stretching out as Ellana curls hers over his. “I told her that I was close, but I was just behind and that I had to return. The trail was too difficult. It was not a lie. I caught him just as he was sliding from my grasp.”

“You should not have rushed for me. You ruin your own work.”

“Rather for you than for anyone else,” Mahanon replies. “I told him that he’d be a grandfather.”

Ellana's breath hitches. “What did he say?”

Mahanon’s fingers trace the air over the baby’s face as he recites the prayer - so old and unused, but not forgotten.

“Blessings upon this child,” Mahanon says, “He loves in his own mutilated way. I will force his mind straight if I have to break it with my own two hands. But he wishes this child well. I think he continues to claim us, and by extension her, as his own.”

“Does he think it keeps us safe?”

“He _hopes_ it keeps us safe,” Mahanon says. “In his dreams it keeps us safe.”

Ellana’s lips brush against his cheek.

“What a sweet world our hahren has dreamed for us.”

“What a spiteful world,” Mahanon corrects. “He names this child, Ellana. Do you want the name?”

“Tell me, I will hold it.”

“He names the child _Dusk Runner_ ,” Mahanon says, careful with the syllables - foreign and strange in his mouth. Pure and undiluted elven. Mahanon recognizes fragments of the syllables and their formation. “The one who escapes worlds, blindly.”

Ellana’s laughter is a silent echo of his own.

“He is a fool,” Mahanon reminds her.

“He is a dreamer,” She says. It is not, necessarily, a correction. “Do you hear that, Baby? You are loved very much.”


	69. Chapter 69

It feels like a full body blast of electricity - from his toes up to the tips of his horns. Bull doesn’t even fucking feel his horns - not really. He doesn’t feel his horns in the way he figures most people don’t feel their hair until something yanks on it.

It feels like a full body blast of electricity all at once that rattles him down to his very core.

He hears Kata-kost shriek - feels her drop in the sky before she regains her altitude, and directs herself to _dive_ towards him.

Bull stares up, dazed - dazed is not good in the middle of a fight. Dazed is even worse in the middle of a siege. Dazed is even more fucking awful when you are surrounded.

He isn’t used to being - to being covered.

Bull is a big man. He’s Qunari and even then he’s big - bulk, shoulders, broad breath, muscles and fat and bone and scars and broad, broad horns.

Bull is used to _covering_. He is used to smothering. He is used to being the one who looms, and can engulf someone with less than his shadow without trying.

Mahanon is not broader than him - not by much. The varghest, is, however, _longer_ than him. From nose to tail, Mahanon more than outsizes him. And the daemon is using every single inch of that to press Bull down hard into the stone of Adamant. Mahanon’s tail lashes violently against the ground as the varghest snarls, head raised  and armored plates glittering with gold blood in the light of torches and demons and the two moons.

Kata-kost pulls up in time to avoid a volley of arrows - Bull hears her shriek in rage. The arrows bounce off Mahanon’s scales harmlessly - the few that do manage to stick to their target don’t seem to faze the daemon at all.

Mahanon curls down low over him, seemingly oblivious - or perhaps purposefully ignoring - the effect of touching another person. Bull pushes his mind through the overwhelming sensation of Mahanon’s long, hot underbelly pushing him to the ground.

“I,” Mahanon hisses, the sound vibrating against Bull’s front, “ _loathe you_.”

Bull feels his lip curl up ward as Kata-kost lands on the ground, large wings spread and feathers angrily spread out as she hisses at Mahanon. Mahanon hisses back.

“Lot of trouble to go through for someone you hate,” Bull says.

“Get off him,” Kata-kost snaps. Mahanon’s claws rasp against stone as he quickly moves off of Bull, thick tail slamming into whoever is stupid enough to be within range. Some of them are Inquisition daemons.

“With _pleasure_ ,” Mahanon sneers.

Bull doesn’t seen Lavellan anywhere.

Mahanon doesn’t move far away, doesn’t go back to wherever Lavellan is. He lingers, snapping and swiping aside enemy daemons with ease - and a few enemy soldiers as well.

“Thank you,” Bull says, bending down to hold his arm out to Kata-kost. She hops onto his arm and he launches her back into the air. She circles, easily taking out a few of the smaller flying daemons as she moves up and outwards. But he can feel her irritation, her suspicion, her concern. She’ll be staying close as long as the varghest lingers.

Mahanon hisses and lashes out at the nearest enemy daemon - sinking his teeth straight into the neck of a reckless hound, dragging the trashing daemon with him before slamming the thing straight into the nearest wall. The daemon disappears into gold dust and an archer goes down, falling off of a wall. Mahanon’s teeth are gold-laced and gleaming.

“I regret everything about you,” Mahanon snaps, scales rustling and smearing red and gold over stone. “Dead weight.”

Up above them Kata-kost snaps back, “Loose cannon.”

Bull pointedly gives Mahanon his back as he gets back to doing what he’s here for.

Despite being dead weight, Mahanon doesn’t leave.

No arrows reach for either Bull or Kata-kost again that night.

(There are other things to be concerned about. But the varghest keeps the skies clear of arrows. And Bull does not say what he knows that to mean.)

-

“Betrayer,” Mahanon hisses, his massive body still on the floor of the room the Inquisition has taken over as a make-shift infirmary.

Mahanon’s body is mostly still - unusually still, lying on his side. He looks uncomfortably like a dying thing.

His voice rasps and his sides slowly shudder up and down with his breathing, in time to match Lavellan’s own death rattle on the bed.

“Traitor, _harellan_ ,” Mahanon continues to croak out.

The varghest can no longer fight.

Bull looks between the daemon and Lavellan on the bed.

Mahanon had thrashed. He had fought. He had scraped the no doubt expensive and beautiful floors of the palace guest wing from front door, up the stairs, through hallways, and to this room. He’d ripped out walls, rugs, gouged at marble and wood.

Lavellan had been so still that if it weren’t for the fact that Mahanon was still a thrashing monster of a daemon Bull would have thought she were dead.

Kata-kosts’ great talons dig into the leather on his shoulder, just shy of puncturing.

She is not dead. Not yet.

Kata-kost’s eyes are firmly locked on Mahanon’s glassy ones.

“Hahren,” Lavellan’s voice is a whisper through her teeth. Dorian brushes his hand over her hair, focused with Stitches and Dalish on cutting more from the arm that - that looks like she had already cut.

That _Mahanon_ had already cut.

(That someone had already cut.)

Mahanon spits out venom and gold and red onto the floor. A harsh splatter that smells so strongly of metal Bull’s throat closes.

“ _Bastard_ ,” Mahanon sneers, tail jerking in an aborted move that makes both daemon and woman groan out in a long breath. “Snap his neck, dig teeth into quivering white belly, drag him. _Drag him. No mercy for betrayers_.”

Lavellan lets out a long, strangled cry - the three around her bed furiously scrambling for more cloth to staunch the bleeding, water, and lyrium.

Kata-kost abruptly pushes off of Bull’s shoulder and lands close to Mahanon’s muzzle, closing her claw around it and squeezing.

“Enough,” She says, “ _Enough_.”

Bull doesn’t know if Mahanon could shake her off or not. But he doesn’t. And he does quiet.

Bull slowly eases up, body sore and aching, heart worse.

He moves carefully as the healers continue their work. He makes sure that he’s in Mahanon’s direct line of sight - no matter how out of it he is, how blurry his vision.

Bull sits down, legs crossed and he puts his hand down on Mahanon’s neck, feeling the hot golden warmth of Mahanon’s - Lavellan’s - life under his palm.

Mahanon stills, body relaxing underneath his hand.

His eye slowly focuses on the Iron Bull and Kata-kosts’s hold on his muzzle is more a gentle touch than an actual grasp.

“ _Tel’abelas”,”_ Mahanon’s voice is very soft, very quiet, “ _Ar last male revas._ Do not follow where I have gone.”


	70. Chapter 70

When Bull opens the door and gets a snapping hiss around his groin, his reasonable response is to immediately move back and let the varghest enter the room.

Bull is only a little bit amused by this. The rest of him is entirely confused.

“You are alone,” Mahanon says, nose raised, tongue sliding out to scent the air.

“I’m expecting company,” Bull replies. A pointed invitation to _go away_.

“If it isn’t Ellana I don’t care,” The varghest says, large body taking up a deeply disconcerting amount of space as he turns a slow circle in the small room. “I will talk to you. Your company can wait.”

Bull closes the door.

Mahanon’s eyes watch him as Bull moves to sit at the one chair in the room. Bull forces himself to keep his body open, to broadcast every move. Mahanon has been on edge lately.

They all have been.

That’s part of what tonight was supposed to be about. Unwinding. Letting off some steam.

In less than a week they set out for the Arbor Wilds.

Even Ellana, ever cool and patient Ellana, has shown signs of fraying.

(“If I am around Sera right now,” Ellana tells him in a very soft voice that would serve well to remind everyone that her daemon’s shape is no mistake, no accidental spur of the moment shock that’s haunted her ever since, no secret hidden soft meaning, no sign that she needs to be protected, “There will _be_ no more Sera.”

Ellana pauses, here, knees slowly sliding up against her chest as she curls her toes, arms hugging her legs to her.

“It would take me a while, but I would remember - too late - that she is, sometimes, my friend.”

Bull, listening to that then, remembers Lavellan earlier when she was going up to consult with Cole about something.

The varghest still draws many stares whenever he choses to make an appearance. Even more so when he chooses to do so in areas like the Herald’s Rest or the merchant stalls or the infirmary or library.

Bull, at first, had thought that the reason the varghest had paused  as Ellana was going up the stairs was that he couldn’t climb them. That they weren’t traversable for a daemon of his particular shape. Or perhaps that he thought the stairs wouldn't hold him - or that the stairs were unfriendly to his clawed feet.

But Ellana had paused, and reached her hand out and touched two of her fingers to his neck and said, in that same voice she used when she just spoke in had said, “Please. Don’t.”

Mahanon’s sharp eyes had fixed on Sera’s fox daemon. And Bull had recognized the look in those eyes. He’d seen them in Kata-kost, in Vivienne’s sleek jaguar, and in Leliana’s sharp magpie.

It was the look of someone who had scented blood and was ready to pounce.

Mahanon, then, slowly began to climb the stairs after Ellana.

“That,” Kata-kost murmured to him, with a small curl of respect and warm competitive desire, “Would have been a splatter.”

“No,” Bull disagreed, “A smear.”)

“I loathe you,” Mahanon says after a moment, repeating the words from Adamant. “I despise you. _You are a deadweight, to us_. Do you understand this, the Iron Bull?”

Bull clamps down on steam and slowly rising pressure. The is not enough to rattle him. This is not enough to break him.

Mahanon is very still, but with his raised scales and the venom of his words, it feels like he’s practically _buzzing_. Even with the tense, arch of his body and the stiff position of his tail Bull can tell that the daemon is using a tremendous amount of will to _not move_. To not trash and hiss and claw like the monster a lot of people like to say he is.

“You are a deadweight, an iron shackle around our necks,” Mahanon spits, “There is nothing we can do with you. Out of all of them, you are the only one who will stay. Do you understand this? The others - all the others we could leave and they would survive, they would find their own paths. Pavus was always meant to leave, Sera belongs to something larger than us, Varric’s heart is in Kirkwall. Cassandra, Vivienne, Leliana - one of those three will rise to the Sunburst throne and the other two, will no doubt, return to their respective circles and rebuild. Blackwall has a path of atonement to follow for all that he believes that it is worthless. _Even Cole. Even the spirit boy is nothing but air to us_.”

Mahanon advances, eyes glowing with rage, “But _you_. You we cannot lose. _You_ we cannot shake. _You, we hold onto with nowhere to set down_.”

Bull swallows, and he holds his mind clear.

“Solas.”

Mahanon’s laugh sounds a lot like the scrape of nails on the underbelly of the hull of a ship, rocking in a storm. Lost.

“She refuses to understand,” Mahanon’s head shakes back and forth, teeth bared, “She refuses to listen to me in many things though we both know I am truth. Solas _was never here_. Him? Him we never had to care for. If the spirit boy is air, then Solas is less than that. He is _nothing_. You. _You are everywhere. You are on our hands_. You are in the backs of our minds, your eye is on every action we take, your ear is on every breath we have, your very _life_ hinges on our own.”

Mahanon’s hind claws rasp against the floor, as he paws at it, really beginning to vibrate with energy.

“ _Do you understand what you have done to us_?” Mahanon asks, voice cracking like lightning, like glass, “There is nowhere for us to go. We will never disappear. Wherever we go - there will always be eyes. We can hide the mark, we can hide her ears. I, myself, can disappear - I can leave her. _But you will always be there. You, we cannot hide. You, we cannot disguise._ You. _You_ will always be there to be seen. _The Iron Bull._ ”

Mahanon’s voice curls around the name that he has chosen for himself. Bitter. Like coffee and ash.

“Do you want me to leave?” Bull asks. Because through the venom there is this -

As it would do people well to remember that past Ellana’s facade of kindness, there is a dark and ruthless possessive desire.

And past Mahanon’s poisonous vitriol and malice, there is a loyalty that burns golden in every light.

“You don’t have to protect me,” Bull says, holding his hands loose as he leans his elbows onto his knees, bringing his eye closer to Mahanon’s hunched level. “You don’t need to keep me safe. _I_ am here to keep _you_ safe. I am here _for you_. This isn’t going to be the two of you dragging me around until one or both of us die.”

Bull gestures his hand between the two of them.

“ _This_ is an equal partnership,” He says. “Just because I choose to follow does not mean that there is an imbalance of power. To follow does not always mean to submit or to surrender. To follow means to support, to trust, to guard.”

Mahanon’s eyes have the faintest hint of consideration to them that shuts down cold and hard.

“You are a man who erases himself too calmly, who transforms too fluidly, and is too easily commanded,” Mahanon says. “You are _fragile_.”

Bull feels his eyebrows raise.

“That would be a new one.”

“You cling to something else, stealing your certainty from that thing. You are a ship without anchor. There is the possibility of steadiness, of certainty in you. From afar you are untouched, unmoved, unspoiled. An illusion. But up close I see the tremors that have rocked you since you were cut from the Qun. That have cracked you since before the Iron Bull’s Chargers and the Inquisition and all of this.” Mahanon inches forward, almost nose to nose with him. “I see that which has shaken you since Seheron. It is a crack down to your soul. It is a crack that we cannot fix for you. _We are not your harbor in a storm._ We cannot be the earth beneath your feet or the steadying hand that stops your fall.”

Mahanon’s voice drops to a whisper, “We have tried. We are _trying_. But it is not our purpose or our nature. We are not steady. We are not certain. We cannot be the kind of strength you are looking for. We will fail you.”

Mahanon’s eyes glitter, “We cannot be the reason you break. We cannot fail you again. _It would bring us down with you_ , if you fell.”

Bull slowly reaches his hand out and when the varghest does not move he places his hand on the thinner scales on the underside of his jaw.

“I will not break,” Bull promises. “Kata-kost and I fly steady. The drafts beneath Kata-kost’s wings are never permanent. But we take what we can get. We do not need to be held up indefinitely. What we need is the support of something to give us a direction, for a time, until we have the power in our own legs and arms to carve it out ourselves. I am not asking either of you to fix me. I am not asking either of you to keep me together. I do not ask _anything_ from you. There are things that I want from Ellana, but they are not the same things I ask from her.”

“What do you want from us?” Mahaon’s voice is softer still, as soft as the thin scales beneath the Iron Bull’s fingertips. “You know that if you asked we would give it to you. For you, she would give too much rope.”

“Yeah,” Bull nods. “I want to be with her, you. I just want to be in your lives. That’s all. I want to know that even if the wind diverts our paths, there is the possibility that they will bring them together again. I want to know that when I look up at the sky I will see her in the North, even if that is not where I am going or meant to go. That’s all.”

Mahanon slowly pulls his muzzle out of the Iron Bull’s hands and turns away from him.

“Do not hold onto us,” Mahanon says, “We are not as steady as we pretend. We can be that star - cold and far away to be chased, if that is what you ask. But do not ask for us to be the rock you rest upon. We cannot carry that weight.”

“I won’t,” Bull says. The varghest nods, once and then turns, claws rising faster than Bull can think and he shreds a long tear down the center of the sheets.

“There,” Mahanon says, normal disinterested drawl of a voice drawn back on as if the past few minutes of raw golden blood didn’t seep from the very same mouth. “Now no one will doubt your sexual powers. Your reputation is upheld.”

Bull feel his lip quirk up, “Thanks.”

“You are welcome,” Mahanon says, claw hooking in the wooden doorframe to drag it open. “May the stars be kind to you, the Iron Bull.”


	71. Chapter 71

"I thought you said your daemon was shy,” Kata-kost says, softly, great wings pressed to her body as she leans down off of Bull’s shoulder to be closer to Ellana’s face.

Ellana purposefully flicks the small, nail-sized seashell that’s been pinned closed with a wooden peg off her chest. The shell bounces on its string.

There, up until now, have been two main assumptions concerning their Inquisitor’s daemon.

One, it was small and she kept it in that shell. A ladybird, a pill bug, a spider, a caterpillar, a wasp, a bee, a beetle, any many dozens of small things that could have fit into that shell.

Two, her daemon is some sort of bird that could fly a great distance from her and watch over her - as Kata-kost does with the Iron Bull.

Both, in their own way would have fit.

The delicate ingenuity and tenacity of a bug or an insect, mixed with some sort of possible poison or bite or sting would match her well. Similarly, the swift agility and sharp instincts of a bird.

Instead there is Mahanon, who as his massive bulk created waves of gathered nobles and servants as they pushed away from him - creating a large bubble of silence and fear - could be physically felt _sneering_ at their existences. Instead, there is Mahanon who - as Lavellan greeted Gaspard, loomed over the man’s hound with bared teeth and a crooned, _many thanks for opening these doors_.

There is Mahanon who looked the Empress’ gold-coated lynx in the eye and did not bow.

There is Mahanon, who has not followed Ellana here but instead has gone - nails and scales audibly rasping along the floor - outside to the gardens.

“He is very shy,” Ellana agrees, smile flickering around the edges of her face as the Iron Bull and Kata-kost both look down at her.

Bull pointedly looks at the seashell she’s playing with.

Ellana’s smile becomes a touch more tangible.

“I like seashells,” She says, pausing to take the necklace off and toss it out the window behind him. Her eyes challenge him to say something, anything.

He doesn’t. Kata-kost doesn’t.

Lavellan had never said that her daemon was inside the shell.

“Clever, clever bas,” Kata-kost hums, wings spreading just a bit as she steadies herself. Bull angles his shoulder towards the window and pushes the glass panes open a few inches more. Kata-kost jumps onto the sill with a click of her nails before she pushes herself out into the sky.

“I think,” Bull says when Ellana’s eyes drag from watching Kata-kosts’ flight back to his face. A slow travel of her dark, dark eyes that drags up his body in the same way Mahanon’s thick armored tail drags across the floor, “That you’ve sent the poor Ambassador’s plans for making you semi-presentable down to literal hell.”

Ellana’s mouth twists into a lop-sided grin, “You think so? Should I apologize?”

“Nah,” Bull shrugs his shoulders, “Personally, I think she likes the challenge.”

Lavellan sways into him for a brief moment, and Bull finds himself resisting the urge to lean into her space, into her -

“I think _you_ like the challenge more,” She whispers.

She is not wrong.

-

Most people expect Mahanon to be a small thing. A narrow thing. It is typical of the Dalish elves to have things meant for underbrush.

Foxes, hares, snakes, badgers, the occasional wolverine. The odd hedgehog or insect here and there - quails, too.

When they were younger Mahanon was often a fox. He was many things that were expected of them. Ellana cannot say that there was any definitive point in their childhood that would lead him to become the massive, poisonous, beast that he is now.

There are those with daemons for heavy work - bears, oxen, deer, elk, so on and so forth. There are those with daemons that are for hunting - wolves, hounds, big cats, hunting birds. There are those with daemons for careful watching and guarding - serpents, insects, hares, little birds.

One’s daemon often becomes a means of survival in the clans.

Ellana’s daemon is none of the above.

Mahanon could not be put to work - not with his scales and his claws and his poison. Mahanon could not be used for hunting in the forest with his size and the glaring obviousness of how he is misplaced.

That of course, rules out the latter option as well.

What Mahanon was good for was protecting Ellana and not much else.

This is not something that anyone could fault him. This is not something anyone ever attempted to fault him.

This is something, however, that both of them sometimes regret.

Ellana’s breath is too loud, too harsh. She curls up so tight it hurts her back and strains her muscles and she curls up even further.

Mahanon is hot pressure on all sides as he curls around her. His own breathing, his own heart, pounds with her own.

The unfortunate truth is that Mahanon is too bold, too clear, too visible.

In this situation where she has been blasted straight into a sink-hole and covered in rocks by Venatori, Mahanon is not helping this situation.

He was helping when he - in all his brave irreverence of convention - was ripping Venatori arteries and spraying crimson blood onto sand. He was helping when he swatted daemons to the side so hard they turned to dust mid-way. Mahanon was helping when he was very far away from her and watching enemy movements and acting on his own to foil plans.

Here, at best, Mahanon is crushing her while trying to keep the rocks on top of them from crushing them both.

Regret, anger, bitterness, and rueful adoration mix together in her mouth like the sand and grit and sweat in her eyes and coated all over every exposed part of her skin. Lips, ears, trickling down the back of her neck, her hands, and sliding hot and sticky down her front.

Ellana has been trapped before. This is not uncommon when one is a Dalish mage and a child growing up in strongly Andrastian lands close to Tevinter borders.

She has been put in cages, barrels, crates, wagons, chains, among other such things crafted with the purpose of containment.

It was different then, because Mahanon could curl up and hiss his comfort into her ear, or buzz his own irritation at the situation, or crawl his way and cling around her neck. He could be so small - a rabbit, a cat, a bee, a spider, a wolf pup, a bear cub, a snake, a crow.

He could be comfort in her hands close to her heart.

He is none of those things now.

She knows that he is panicking just as much as she is. She knows that they are both having deep and chagrined regrets in that this is not something that could be helped. The fact that Mahanon is currently crushing her worse than if it was just her alone - most likely - is not something that they can change or help.

“I bet you,” She says through hot and dry sand-flecked lips, “The Iron Bull fucks them up good.”

“You talk like one of them now,” Mahanon’s voice hisses back in hot darkness, “Stop betting with yourself. You always lose.” He pauses, “Cassandra and her daemon will have them in a smear before the Iron Bull can do anything. Kata-kost might as well be a fly when Adrian gets mad.”

“I hope that Adrian and Cassandra don’t finish this fight right here,” Ellana replies.

They both grimace at the thought of the heavy horse trampling people directly on top of the pile of rocks they’re currently under.

“Pop,” Mahanon muses.

“Squish,” Ellana agrees.


	72. Chapter 72

It's the closest Dorian thinks he's ever seen Ellana's daemon be to playful.

Mahanon extends one single claw and swipes at Delfina. Dorian eyes the claw as Delfina mantles, flapping and hopping away before going back in the like the champion she is. She gets in two solid pecks at him before Mahanon takes another lazy, wide-arced swipe at her.

Delfina chitters a laugh before flying up and above Mahanon’s head, landing with utmost impudence on his back and pecking at the hard armored scales there. Mahanon rolls his shoulders once causing the treepie to flap upwards playfully hitting Mahanon in the eye with her tail before landing again.

Mahanon then proceeds to ignore her in the new pursuit of trying to pester either Kata-kost out of the tree she’s in, or goading Krem’s stubborn looking ram into a fight. It’s unlikely that either will indulge him.

“He likes you,” Ellana says, throwing her legs over his, scooting close across the grass until she’s half-on top of him. Dorian puts a finger to the center of her forehead and pushes back. Ellana curls her fingers into the collar of his shirt to keep herself from falling.

“You shouldn’t tease,” Dorian says. Ellana snaps at his fingers.

“Who’s teasing?” She asks. He flicks her forehead and she grimaces. “He does like you. Mahanon doesn’t tolerate the attentions of daemons and people he doesn’t consider worth the effort.”

“I recall,” Dorian says.

Mahanon had all but swatted Sera’s fox off Skyhold’s walls the first - and only time - they met.

“Sometimes he likes people I don’t, sometimes I like people he doesn’t,” Ellana continues, resting her cheek on her bent knee, fingers still loosely hooked into Dorian’s collar. “This is one of those very rare times that we both happen to like a person.”

“Peculiar,” Dorian says, bending one of his own legs up to nudge at hers. Dorian rests and elbow on her shoulder and Ellana leans into it.

“Fascinating,” She corrects.

“Negotiable,” Dorian concedes.

She laughs and they watch as Krem’s daemon gives Mahanon a threatening kick, just shy of making contact. Mahanon’s tail rustles on the grass impatiently before he goes off to bother the Iron Bull, who’s been resting with Krem after one of their morning spars. Delfina gives up on her game of taunting and flies up to join Kata-kost.

Dorian watches as Mahanon approaches the two men - neither of them paying the daemon much mind until Mahanon shoves his head underneath the Iron Bull’s arm, slowly stretching out on the ground until he’s lying on his side, the Iron Bull’s arm draped over his thick neck.

Everyone -

 _Everyone_ is paying attention now.

Krem, Krem’s daemon, every solider and passerby who just happened to be glancing in their direction, _everyone_.

Even the Iron Bull looks surprised. Past surprised _shocked. Astounded. Confounded. Baffled._ Every single word and none of them can encompass how completely and utterly - _something_ this moment is.

Dorian slowly looks to Ellana, acutely aware that his mouth must be hanging open in the most uncouth of ways.

Ellana is not watching the two.

Ellana is watching _him_. She smirks and uses her free hand - the hand not hooked into Dorian’s collar - to push his jaw shut.

The Iron Bull is staring at her, now.

But Ellana ignores him. All of them.

“Fascinating,” Dorian croaks out.

-

Kata-kost is a dark shadow across the moon, and Lavellan doesn’t move as the giant eagle lands, claws curling around the stone railing of the balcony with the faintest rasp. She watches the daemon out of the corner of her eye as she settles herself before turning her full attention back to the two moons.

“I want to speak with you,” Kata-kost says, her powerful voice subdued under twin gazes of the moons and Lavellan.

“What stops you?” Ellana asks.

“Nothing stops me,” Kata-kost replies, “Are _you_ going to stop me?”

Ellana turns to look a the large bird, “No. Is there something you needed to speak of, first, Kata-kost? Or is this just a general conversation of grievances and pains? I do not mind either. I like to hear about your worries.”

Kata-kosts’s sharp eyes are nothing like the Iron Bull’s. Kata-kost hides nothing of her sharpness, of her watching. Sometimes the Iron Bull’s watching is as if it were behind a flimsy curtain, or perhaps a haze of smoke. His watching can be tricked into being thought of as something different - something softer, something hotter, something farther away. But it is always very close, very sharp, very intimate, and very deep. These are things Mahanon gets mad at her for forgetting - for ignoring, whenever she curls her mind into the image of the smoke and silken veils.

It has been a very long time since she has been seen - since _they_ have been seen.

It is - it is exciting to be seen. It is thrilling to be understood.

“ _You_ are my worry,” Kata-kost says, cutting through and diving where the Iron Bull would circle and trap. “You are too many things at once. You are greedy. You are selfish. You are going to get yourself killed. You are a dead woman walking. There is nothing to you.”

The daemon’s large body shifts - at this height she looms over Ellana, standing as she is, leaned against the railing.

“There is nothing that holds you,” Kata-kost continues, “When this is over and gone, you are nothing but wind. A memory, stale on the lips, never to be tasted again. Were you ever really here?”

“I belong to no one,” Ellana says to the question that Kata-kost has not yet asked. “I am not yours, the Iron Bull’s. I am not the Inquisition’s. I am not _anyone’s_. I am here because there is something that I alone can do. I am here because it is my responsibility to fulfill that. And when it is done I will do as I will. Whether that means continuing to stay here and be with the people I find comfort in, or leaving for something new I cannot say.”

Kata-kost looks immensely displeased.

Ellana raises her hand, finger bent and Kata cost slowly leans forward and touches the curved point of her beak against Ellana’s knuckle. Barely anything.

Kata-kost could snap the finger off if she wanted.

“Whether I go or not,” Ellana says softly, “Does not mean I cannot be followed.”

The eagle’s beak is sharp around her skin - she can feel the power in Kata-kost’s body, pushed to this single moment before she releases the skin of Ellana’s finger without so much as a single  indentation.

“There is no place you can go where I cannot follow,” She declares, bending her head to allow Ellana to run her finger over her head, and down over her throat and breast. Ellana feels her breath hitch in her own, heart pounding. It feels like waves of warm, heavy sand sliding over her skin, through her skin, into her soul.

“I will do my best not to find one by accident,” Ellana says. “But I make no promises.”

“No,” Kata-kost nods, eyes closing, “You are no liar.”


	73. Chapter 73

“And that concludes today’s class,” Lavellan says, as she rises out of corpse pose, “Enjoy your relaxing and fresh day. I’ll see you all again soon.”

“So that’s yoga,” Malika says as she and Maxwell roll up their mats. “I was scared I’d look dumb and fall a lot. This was actually really nice.”

“I told you,” Maxwell replies, “And now you feel calm and ready to like - fucking tear it up, right?”

“Mostly just calm, Max,” Malika says. “Remind me how you got signed up for this again?”

“My physical therapist said it would be a good way to get back into things,” Maxwell replies, “And since I’m too afraid of my cousin to disobey any sort of instruction - subtle or otherwise - I came for the first class of the morning and hoped to _god_ I didn’t make a fool of myself and that if I did there’d only be two other people there to watch me.”

“And how did that go?”

“Brilliantly, we all had a spectacular laugh,” Maxwell replies, waving at Lavellan as he and Malika leave the glass walled yoga room back into Skyhold’s main gym area.

As they leave they stand aside for the Iron Bull to duck his head and enter.

“Bull does yoga _too_?” Malika’s eyebrows shoot upwards, “I thought he runs his endurance course during the morning blocks.”

“Nah, he doesn’t join the classes,” Maxwell says, nudging Malika forward, “The yoga ones, at least. He and Lavellan do meditation classes.”

Malika’s head snaps as she turns to stare at Maxwell.

“Say what?”

“Well, you’re normally on shift for spotting in the afternoons so you miss it,” Maxwell shrugs. Then he squints his eyes at her, “Tell me you knew.”

“Knew what?” Maxwell just shakes his head and Malika jogs to catch up to him, lightly whacking the back of his leg with her yoga mat before she pulls the strap of it back over her shoulder. “Tell me! Max! Come on!”

“They’re _together_ ,” Maxwell says, voice low, “Bull and Lavellan arrange their shifts and classes so that they can be here at the same times. They both have a morning class - Bull has the morning cardio, Lavellan has morning yoga. Then Bull has appointments for weights and core and Lavellan goes on break. Then Lavellan does some dance classes while Bull switches to floor. Then they both go to lunch and after that they have paperwork. Then they go home together - _Malika, they have the same mailing address_.”

“Since when!”

“For like, _the past year_.”

“Oh my god,” Malika grins, jogging and jumping up an down in front of him, “I can’t believe no one told me. Was it supposed to be a secret? It is because it’s against company policy? Because I’m pretty sure Leliana and Josephine wouldn’t mind so much and _oh my god, how did I not notice_?”

“Because normally by the time you come in for your afternoon shifts you look like you’re dead?” Maxwell replies, ruffling Malika’s hair, “Such is the life of someone who goes to college, does volunteer work, _and_ has a part time job.”

-

“You’re dating the yoga instructor,” Cassandra says without preamble as she sits next to him.

Bull doesn’t point out that this is the men’s changing room. He has no doubt that Cassandra has scared off anyone else who’d have come in or otherwise been in the same general area of the gym as them.

“She’s also the nutritionist’s sister,” Bull says, “And I’m not dating her.”

Cassandra's eyes narrow; the woman has no patience for what she believes to be lies, and even less patience with clever-talk.

“Does it count as dating if you both go to a club together because you both got calls from drunk friends who needed to be picked up?” Bull asks and Cassandra rolls her eyes. “I’m not _dating_ her.”

It’s not a lie.

Bull’s never asked Lavellan out, and she’s never asked _him_ out, either. They just - fell in together. Like two coins making different paths down one of those black spiral things at the mall.

“Fine. You’re _seeing_ the yoga instructor,” Cassandra says.

“Most of us are, seeing as we all have eyes - _ow_.” Bull laughs when Cassandra punches him. He only sides two inches, so he know she’s just playing. “So am I in trouble?”

“Only if you keep staring at her during her morning classes,” Cassandra says.

“I can be subtle about staring,” Bull tells her bending down to check on his ankle brace. “I can do subtle when I feel like it.”

“I believe it when I see it,” Cassandra replies, stretching as she stands up, “Evelyn and Josephine were concerned that you were looking at her like you were going to snap her in half. They thought you two had a fight and you were planning the best way to win.”

Bull decides it’s probably not a good idea to tell her that he was trying to figure out the best way to win his bet with Ellana that melting a marshmallow on top of a banana and mixing it with fruity pebbles could in no way be considered healthy and that Mahanon would take his side on that. Ellana, being his sister, would not have swayed Mahanon to blatantly lie about what is - essentially - his job.

“Leliana and Sera were betting that you were planning on how to snap her in half,” Cassandra then says, “In your usual manner of bending people over.”

“Crude,” Bull says.

“Their words,” Cassandra sneers, the tips of her ears burning pink.

“We’ll make a commoner out of you, yet, Pentaghast,” Bull laughs. “No, I am not dating Ellana Lavellan. Do you want me to write that down for you? Get that filed away in our HR records?”

“Ellana has already submitted her documents for change of address,” Cassandra says. “Don’t give in to her or you’ll be out of a job.” Cassandra’s eyes flicker with humor.

“Don’t worry,” Bull waves his hand, “Ellana might have no standards for food but I’m interested in not getting food poisoning or having my stomach dissolve inside my own body. Thanks for your concern, Pentaghast. Good talk, as usual.”

Cassandra nods, “You’re welcome. And go see Evelyn for your ankle before she has to hunt you down. We’re already down one trainer while Herah and Kaaras are on vacation.”


	74. Chapter 74

"I bet you anything the camp counselors are fucking.”

Sutherland grimaces, “Please don’t say that. I don’t want to hear it.”

Skyhold Summer Camp is the _best_ Summer Camp _to ever Camp_ and Sutherland doesn’t want the experience ruined by that sentence.

Vox gives him a fond look before going back to folding his laundry.

Shayd rolls her eyes, “Don’t be such a baby, Sutherland. Time to talk big adult person trash talk and gossip. The Iron Bull and Lavellan are fucking.”

“ _Which_ Lavellan?” Because it makes a huge world of difference in Sutherland’s mind. Both are equally terrifying and mind-numbing, but one he can get over and the other will probably result in him being _dead_ by the end of the week.

“Ellana, the part time cafeteria assistant and part time - I don’t know, animal husbandry teacher? I don’t know what to call her, actually.” Shayd pauses, silence filling the cabin. Sutherland can hear the others outside.

It’s free time to get things like laundry and letter writing and stuff done because later this afternoon they’re doing a test of Courage that’s supposed to go all the way into the evening hours and honestly Sutherland will never be ready for these things.

His parents have been sending him to Skyhold every summer for over seven years - he’s literally aged up to the teenager bracket and he still can’t handle the tests of courage.

He should, probably, at this point know what Ellana’s job position is.

Then again, given that her twin brother’s only purpose is to seemingly scare them at all hours without actually doing any _counseling_ , he’s pretty sure they’re just freeloaders during the summer. Most of Sutherland’s interactions with the quiet and sullen man involve the tests of Courage actually, so maybe that’s his only job here?

Neither of them are listed on Skyhold’s official web page.

“Why do you think that?” He’s quietly relieved it isn’t Mahanon and the Iron Bull because that’s the one that seems like just _considering_ would get him dead.

“Because the two are gross and cute together that’s why.”

“Pavus is gross and cute with half the other staff members,” Voth points out.

“Okay, but that’s Pavus and an entirely different story,” Shayd says. Sutherland agrees.

Dorian Pavus, for as long as he’s worked here, has been teaching every single new batch of kids how to be proud and stand up for themselves and not to allow gender roles to get to them. Him along with Sera, both Lavellans, the Iron Bull, Counselor Aclassi, and the Adaar cousins whenever they’re here.

Sometimes the Adaars don’t do Summer Camp.

Malika, who’s recently been promoted to Camp Counselor, herself, has started to join in on these little sessions officially. Previously she’d just interrupt from wherever she was seated.

“Anyway, it’s just _how they are_ ,” Shayd says, waving her hands. “Like, it’s like how you know that Evelyn and Cullen are definitely going to have three point five babies and four dogs.”

“They already have three,” Sutherland says, “Three dogs, I mean.”

He’s not sure if Evelyn and Cullen _have_ children of their own. He’s not sure if they’ve even gotten to the making babies stages of their relationship. But he does know that they’re in one for sure because every time their eyes meet it’s like you can see bubbles and hearts and flowers blooming around their heads.

As Rat sometimes says. _Twitterpated_.

“That doesn’t mean _fucking_ ,” Sutherland says, feeling duty bound to try and defend the privacy of their authority figures. Especially since one of them is in charge of making sure they don’t get food poisoning or turned into food by wildlife, and the other could very well eat them alive. “For all we know they could just be best friends, or - I don’t know. Whatever it is Cole is to everyone.”

Now that Sutherland thinks about it, he’s not sure if Cole works here either.

“Who actually works here?” Sutherland asks.

“That’s a very good question.”

Everyone screams, Voth’s laundry goes flying, Sutherland falls off his bunk bed, and Shayd’s elbow cracks against a wall and she crumples with a muffled curse.

The Iron Bull looks unimpressed as he leans against their open window.

“Rule one of talking about fucking,” Bull says holding up one finger, “Probably keep your windows and doors closed if you’re talking about people who aren’t you.”

He pointedly raps against the open window screen.

“Also, no, Ellana and I aren’t fucking,” Bull says. And then pauses and turns, holding his hand to his mouth and yelling across the camp grounds, “Ellana, are we fucking?”

A few seconds later - over the sounds of the other counselors making various comments such as, _seriously? Really?_ and _there are children! Actual hand to god children!_ \- Ellana’s voice yells back -

“I don’t _think_ so? I mean, internally my heart says pass, but I guess we could try again? Like? A soft pass? Is that what you’d call it? Bull, is it a soft pass?”

“Probably,” Bull yells back and then grins at them, “There you go. Soft pass, we aren’t fucking.”

He hums and then turns back in her general direction, “Babe, by soft pass do you mean it’s debatable or you’re not sure what a no covers?”

“ _Both?_ ”

Bull’s expression is entirely serious when he turns back to them, “Rule two about talking about fucking, which is actually - in terms of importance - rule number one, _consent, consent, consent_. Also, always talk out your issues, practice safe sex, research your kinks properly, and always use medical grade silicone. The only thing organic going in your parts should be other parts.”

Bull points at Voth, “No cucumbers.”

“Why me?”

“Because between the three of you here you’re the only one not currently getting any. Now close your fucking windows and doors and keep it down, the _actual children_ ,” Sutherland can hear the air quotes in the man’s voice, “Are coming back from their nature hike with Aclassi and Trevelyan. And do _you_ want to be the reason why we get in trouble because we didn’t have their parents sign any permission slips covering the Talk? No. I didn’t think so.”


	75. Chapter 75

“You live up on the castle by the mountain?”

The woman’s smile is beatific, mysterious, and everything the Iron Bull is certain belongs solely in a horror movie of some sort.

“Yes,” She answers, still smiling as she lifts her shot in a toast towards him.

“So you own the place? I hear really creepy shit about it,” Bull says.

“Oh, _no_ ,” She laughs, “I don’t _own_ Skyhold. That’s the castle’s name, by the way. Skyhold. It’s had other names, it just happens to like that one best. I’m the home care giver for the current occupant of Skyhold.”

Bull raises an eyebrow, holding up his own shot. The glasses clink and they knock the back.

“So, if you’re a home care giver shouldn’t you be - uh, giving care?”

She waves her hand dismissively, “He gets incredibly fussy if I don’t leave him alone for a few hours every so often. And he keeps terrifying the nurses and care givers the agencies send. They’ve learned to let me take care of it.”

“Getting drunk on the clock sounds like it’d go against agency policy,” Bull says as the woman gestures for another round of shots. He still takes the drink offered to him, though. “I mean, I don’t know anything about how home care works, but generally for most jobs it seems like a bad idea.”

The woman blinks at him, confused before shaking her head.

“Oh, _no_. I’m not with any agency. I’m just living there because he asked me to,” She says. “I was in the area and I happened to see what a dreadful state his hydrangeas were in so I went up to his front door and banged on it until he opened and then I saw the dismal state of the inside and told him off. He offered me the job and I said _no_ , then he offered me permission to work on his yard and I still said no because if I wanted to fix his yard he couldn’t stop me anyway.”

She pauses and lowers her voice, “He’s not doing so well, see. Most days he’s not exactly all there - physically and mentally. In hindsight I’m honestly amazed he wasn’t dead when I got there.”

“Is this something you should be telling me?” Bull asks, “Violation of privacy or like - admitting some sort of crime.”

The woman gives him a look, “My good sir, you are carrying a gun underneath your smartly trimmed jacket and you have a knife at your ankle.”

Krem whistles from where he’s been eavesdropping like the nosy asshole he is. Bull flips him off without looking.

“Touche, continue,” Bull says.

“In any case, we eventually worked something out and now I change his IV, give him a bath, provide proper scholarly debate and intellectual stimulation, generally add some spice to his otherwise very dull and droning life. And I get free run of his hedges,” She finishes. “Tell me what sort of creepy shit you hear about it because I could have sworn I gotten a handle on it.”

“How does one get a handle on _creepy shit_?” Bull asks. “Isn’t the point of it being creepy shit that it’s stuff you can’t shake off?”

“Creepy is in the eye of the beholder,” The woman answers easily, “Tell me what you’ve heard that’s creepy.”

“For one thing weird music plays - you can sometimes hear it from all the way down here in the city at night,” Bull says, turning towards the rest of his guys, “What else?”

“Lights - like torches, but - not normal fire. Green, or something. Some sort of _Great Gatsby_ shit,” Rocky says.

“As if you’ve ever read the _Great Gatsby_ ,” Krem snorts. The two immediately begin to scuffle.

“Anyone else have something helpful?”

“People staring,” Skinner says from very close. Bull doesn’t quite jump but he does curl his fist when she appears from behind the bar. Bull glares at her. She shrugs and pours herself some whiskey.

The woman and Skinner hold their glasses up to each other.

“People?” The woman asks.

“Sometimes when I’m on my walks,” Skinner says, “I look up and from the castle - what are they called? Walls? Parapets? I see a boy watching me. Just staring at me. I dunno how he can see me from so far away. But I know he’s looking at me.”

The woman taps her finger to her nose, “Hm. I’ll work on that. Thank you.”

She slips off her barstool, putting some money on the counter, and sliding a wink Bull’s way, “See you soon, the Iron Bull’s Chargers.”

“And how did you know that’s our name?” Bull asks, gesturing for his guys _not to murder a lady in the middle of a bar_.

“How did your Inquisitor know that Skyhold is the place she was looking for?” The woman returns, shrugging her jacket on, “Tell your Inquisitor that if she wants a visit we’re good company between the hours of ten to twelve every morning. Anything else and I can make no guarantees or assurances.” The woman’s smile flashes, like the green fire Bull knows he’s seen from those castle walls, “Enjoy your stay.”

-

Lavellan winds her way through the castle - many parts of the stone broken in interesting ways, vines and trees and every manner of flora growing out to create new paths and new walls. The important parts are intact. Skyhold wouldn’t expose Solas in such a cruel way, to rot in the sun.

She hops over a log that’s fallen in one of the hallways, covered in moss and bathed in a square of foggy light.

She doesn’t bother to knock when she pushes one of the great wood doors open. The wood is warm to her fingers, and the door is light - opening with the slightest of her touches.

Solas is already awake, eyes narrowed at the window.

“Beautiful day,” She says and Solas hums, slowly raising a hand and flicking his fingers at the window. The window opens gently and a cool breeze rustles at the bed curtains. She sits on the bed by his foot and squeezes it. “I met some interesting people yesterday, hahren.”

Solas’s eyes flick to her, fine eyebrow raising.

He had insisted that she call him nothing but his name. She had insisted that their lives would indeed be very boring if that was all she ever called him. Thus far they are at an impasse.

“Another home nurse?” Solas asks, tapping his fingers on the top of the sheets. Lavellan takes that as her signal to help him get up and dressed for the day.

“Oh no, I think Cole got the last one good.” She smiles, “Though he doesn’t mean to.”

She’ll have to give him another talk about walking the walls - and not to be so obvious when he stares.

“What?” Solas asks, hand firm on her arm as she helps him sit up.

“Spies,” She answers.

A drop of icy cold water drops directly onto the back of her neck. She doesn’t even bother to look up at the leak she knows isn’t there.

It isn’t her fault if Skyhold doesn’t like the truth.

Solas’ grip tightens, “From?”

“The Inquisition,” She answers, “I’m not sure if they’re here for _you_ , or for what they think is left here. I don’t think they know you at all. I think they’re just curious to see if they can get their hands on the relics you’ve hidden.”

Solas’ eyes narrow at her and their breath comes out frost.

She smiles, “I invited them over between ten and twelve.”

Solas closes his eyes and shakes his head, slowly pushing to his feet. He has no need for shoes. The floor is warm.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” Solas says, ignoring the walker and going straight for his chair. A surprise - she thought he’d be a bit more stubborn after that statement. “If age doesn’t kill me then you will.”

“Don’t forget the cancer,” Lavellan says, kissing his cheek as she starts to push him over floor that evens out on its own, “Mmmm, what else? There’s the cancer, old age, your heart problems, your lung problems, your nerve damage, your - “

Solas raises a hand, “There’s you.”

“You like me here,” Lavellan says, “Skyhold likes me here.”

She doesn’t need shoes, either.

As they walk through halls that are not halls, halls that go wherever they need without actually ever being there, vines curl back to create windows that aren’t.

“I should have gotten rid of you before it got fond of you,” Solas muses, coughing lightly.

“But who’d get rid of all the other bodies?” Lavellan asks lightly, “You can’t just let _all of them_ erode away with the roses. They’ll get glutted on bones! How unsightly. I can’t believe you’d let the gardens waste away like that. No wonder Skyhold was so cross with you. In any case, let’s get you presentable. You’re going to have _guests_ to intimidate.”

“Not get rid of?”

“No,” Lavellan says.

Solas is quiet for a beat, “You _like_ them.”

“I like _you_ ,” She points out.

Solas grumbles, “I will give them _one_ chance to explain their cause.”

“Lovely, I’m sure it will be suitably entertaining. Now - do you want the white shirt today, or are we feeling adventurous? I personally think the green makes you look like someone out of a comic book.”


	76. Chapter 76

He has no idea how she makes navigating this castle so _easy_ , so _simple_ , so _natural_. Bull gets turned around six out of ten times - and he likes to think that he has pretty okay spacial awareness and physical memory. But corridors and doors and windows that he uses and landmarks, familiar in their lighting and view and position, are unreliable. A door that takes him to the kitchen one day disappears the next. A window that overlooks a small section of the garden closest to Skyhold’s western wall changes to stare out over the valley hours later.

His room, which is normally cool and a little damp - expected of an old castle that hasn’t been maintained exactly perfectly, and Bull does not blame the occupants because he pictures castle upkeep must be ball-busting work, _seriously_ , it’s astounding how well the castle is despite there only being two occupants, one of whom is mostly bed-ridden and the other is busy taking care of the bed-ridden one for at least sixteen hours a day - with one narrow window can become sweltering with vines covering the small slat in the dead of night.

This castle is _changing_ , it is _resisting_ , it is _playing_. It sounds insane, it makes _him_ sound insane, but Bull knows himself. This is not how his sanity leaves him. This is entirely too whimsical for his own mind.

These are not things he imagines.

The door, against his palm, resists - _pushes back_ \- for a moment and through the flesh of his palm it feels almost like the heavy wood _shivers_.

He has to put a lot of weight into slowly pushing the door open.

When Lavellan does this, all she has to do is touch it with the tip of her finger - no, Bull thinks, recognizing truth for what it is. Lavellan does not even have to touch doors in his place. They open at her approach, slowly and silently, as if pushed by a wave or a wind.

“And here he is now,” Lavellan’s voice says from inside the room, “Late, I know, but don’t be cross. You know how it is. Time. So fickle, no?”

He hears a low, soft, but firm voice respond. Too low for him to hear.

When Bull manages to get himself in through the opening he made in the door, he looks up and sees Lavellan sitting on a chair next to a large four-poster bed.

The man in the bed is pale, sharp-faced, and incredibly alert looking for someone who seems to have it as bad as Lavellan described.

It is his first time meeting the home owner, and he isn’t quite sure what he expected. There is an odd sense of _curiosity_ in his mind that takes in the image in front of him.

Lavellan is gently massaging one of the man’s hands in her own, looking incredibly cheerful - something that would probably be charming anywhere that isn’t Skyhold, but only comes off as unsettling in the context of this living stone.

The man’s eyes slide over him, not pausing at anything most others do when they meet him for the first time. He then turns his gaze to Lavellan, dismissive, and says - “This is the one you are fond of. Again and again, you prove yourself tasteless. I see nothing to hold your interest. You waste my time and energy. Even the narrow-minded one from earlier was more.”

Before Lavellan can speak, Bull answers back -

“If you’re going to insult me, pick a deader language than old-form Dwarven,” Bull answers. Accented, he knows, but languages are something he’s always been quick at. “Also I don’t appreciate being told I’m less interesting than Pavus.”

Lavellan's delight blooms further, and the man - Solas’ - eyebrow raises.

“You know Ancient Dwarven,” It is not a question. He switches, “And this? What of this language, do you know?”

“I know Nevarran, yes,” Bull answers in kind.

Lavellan laughs, lightly smacking Solas’ wrist with two fingers, she speaks in Trade, “Excellent. Since you know it you can talk to him in it. He insists on me learning all these languages to amuse him with and keep him sharp. He doesn’t seem to quite understand that I am busy and I am not actually his little pet to keep him entertained.” Lavellan brazenly reaches over and pokes the man’s thin cheek.

He scowls at her. She laughs again.

“I am not quite sure why you’re here, either,” He says, a soft touch of fondness at the back of his consonants, turning his hand upwards. Lavellan places two fingers in his palm and he closes his hand over them, turning back towards the Iron Bull. New calculations, new assessment, new tests. “And you, I do not know why _you_ are here. Aside from this child’s meddling. Sit. We will talk, for a time. Let us see what the Inquisition sends on their behalf.”

-

“On time in your own way, I suppose,” The woman is sitting on a white plastic sun-chair just outside the castle walls. The bright, clean, synthetic white of it is a stark contrast to the verdant explosion around them and the slow crawl and slither of it over old stone walls. She’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt that’s obviously pink only because of a bad-laundry day. She’s also wearing overly large sunglasses and there’s a floppy straw hat on the ground next to her. “I was worried you wouldn’t show up and then he’d be unbearably smug at me for weeks.”

“Who?” Bull asks.

“Solas,” She replies, getting to her feet and folding her chair, tucking it under her arm. She gestures for them to follow using her straw hat and goes towards the large, open portcullis.

Bull has half an image of the thing falling down on him, or behind him.

The portcullis doesn’t move as he and Dalish walk through. Just the two of them. Krem and the others are waiting to report back to Trevelyan and the others from their trucks down the road.

“You’re wearing a recording device,” The woman says, tossing the folded chair onto some bushes. Dalish’s nails dig into his arm as they pass and he turns to see the chair _sinking_ into the shrubbery. “Clever, but it won’t work.”

She waves a finger in the air, “We have the worst signal here. I almost fell off a tower once, trying to get my emails to load. Come along, through here. You’re late.”

“You said we were on time,” Dalish reminds her.

“Oh, yes, I know. In your own way, you’re on time,” The woman nods her head, “But on _his_ time, you’re late. So I can’t show you to him, but he did draft a list of questions for me to ask you. Just in through here, there’s a sitting room - I cleaned it yesterday, mind you, so forgive me if it’s a little dirty.”

The words this woman says do not make sense the way she says them. Bull feels a sharp throb at his temple, a headache not yet formed.

He’s suddenly very glad he brought Dalish instead of Skinner. And he’s even more relieved that it was his crew assigned to this instead of Sera’s, or Dorian’s.

(“You get old castle in a mountain next to a small village,” Dorian grouses, “And I get ancient fortress in the middle of a desert wasteland. What the hell did I do to piss Evelyn off this time?”

“At least you aren’t Sera,” Bull points out, “Trashed Keep in the middle of a _frozen_ wasteland.”)

The sitting room doesn’t look dirty, though it does look _old_. Tassels and brocade and velvet. Slightly tarnished mirrors with gilt edges. _Sconces_.

Lavellan drops, bouncing a little on an armchair and Bull and Dalish take a sofa. He feels something _sink_. In his gut. Physically. This entire place is just _creepy_.

“Well, of course, he wanted me to ask the obvious question of why you’re here,” She says.

“The Inquisition has received word that certain key areas will be targeted for hostile attacks,” Dalish says, “Adamant Fortress - “

“Oho?” The woman’s eyebrows raise, “The lost wasteland?”

“Suledin Keep - “

The woman’s mouth splits into a grin.

“This castle, among others,” Dalish answers. “The Inquisition dispatched teams to each location to investigate and warn whoever was occupying the area, or to otherwise hold and defend the area until the threat has either passed or been dealt with.”

The woman tilts her head, and looks at the Iron Bull.

“The Inquisition sends you to protect these lost and unknown places from found and unknown threats? How utterly charming.” Her eyes narrow. “And what of these threats? To what purpose do they serve? _Why_ are these places targets?”

“We don’t know,” Bull answers, “We’re working on that.”

The woman humds, eyes flickering - no. The light in the room flickers. Bull turns and sees the silhouettes of many flying things rushing past the windows. But no sounds. He hears no sounds of wind and wings, of birds or otherwise. He just sees shadows.

“I am Lavellan,” The woman says, “I will relay this information to Solas. I will escort you off of Skyhold’s grounds. Do not come back until I have called again.”


	77. Chapter 77

"I'm sorry for your loss,” Bull says as he climbs up the path towards the main gate. Lavellan is lying there as if she hadn’t moved a day since they left months - almost a year ago. Hell, she looks as if they’ve gone back in time to the first day that Bull ever set foot on Skyhold grounds.

Same sun chair, same t-shirt, same floppy hat.

“Why?” Lavellan asks, hands folded on her stomach as she lazily slumps further down in the plastic, “What a silly and utterly frivolous thing to be, _sorry_ he says. As if you murdered the cranky old man. I did tell you he had - what, a million health problems that weren’t old age, right? I do remember telling you that.”

“It’s a thing people say when someone they know loses someone important,” Bull says, finishing his ascent and standing over her, careful not to block her light.

The Inquisition was facing high charges of treason and plotting against the Orlesian state - and all of their operatives had to be recalled back to base and neutral territory until the entire thing sorted itself out.

Thankfully, must of the threats that the Inquisition was working on abroad had been managed or been whittled down small enough that they could be handed off to locals.

Skyhold, Bull had told Evelyn when she was asking him how he would handle his own situation at the gloomy and eerie castle, didn’t need the Inquisition before, and it still didn’t need them then.

Solas’ death was not widely broadcasted - Lavellan barely made contact with them. Given the shitty internet and telephone service, and the fact that Skyhold’s landline was connected to a single phone in the main room that sometimes wouldn’t ring, or have a dial tone, it could hardly be held against her. Bull found out about it about two weeks ago when the Inquisition was getting ready to send agents back onto their old projects.

His death made local papers - not just int he obituaries, but also in a single article that featured a picture of Skyhold in grainy black and white, juxtaposed next to Lavellan in black lace standing    holding a cremation urn.

“Weird,” Lavellan muses, flicking up her sunglasses and grinning, “Welcome back. Did you need me to escort you in?”

“Why, is Skyhold pissy today?” Bull asks.

This, in all its eccentricity, has grown familiar.

The idea of a living castle, a living land, a living _place_ is - in Bull’s mind - now acceptable. Reasonable. Right.

“Oh no,” Lavellan drops her glasses back onto her nose, “Skyhold’s being mischievous today. It likes me better than Solas, you know. Thinks I’m just _dandy_.”

“I like you better than Solas, too,” Bull points out and Lavellan snorts, wiggling her bare toes before digging them into the dirt.

The portcullis rattles.

Bull doesn’t even bother to look. “My guys are behind me by a few days. I took an earlier flight.”

“Cool,” Lavellan says, waving him in, “By the way, you looked spiffy in your formal dress.”

Bull raises his eyebrows, “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” Lavellan nods, “I like you better not wearing them, though.”

Bull grins, broad and wide. “ _Yeah_?”

A pebble lightly smacks the back of his head. Lavellan sticks her tongue out.

“Yeah, I guess you have a nice body, _whatever_ \- but what I meant was that I like you better _here_ , where you aren’t wearing formal dress and are just wearing garbage shirts with stupid phrases that don’t make sense.” Lavellan mumbles to herself, “Wow, I can’t believe I missed you so much. Solas was right I _am_ crazy.”

“Crazy in love,” Bull calls out as he passes under the sturdy iron. A vine snaps at his ass and he jogs deeper into the castle to the sound of Lavellan laughing.

-

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Lavellan says, eyes bright in contrast to the dark  pre-dawn scenery of the castle, “But I am very displeased with what I think this might do to my hedges. I’ve been slowly coaxing them into some semblance of order for months, now. And now this has gotten them all agitated again.”

Bull has sincere doubts about that considering that the grounds of Skyhold look like, at best, an overgrown amusement park, and at worst a natural disaster zone.

“Alright, I’m sorry that you’re displeased,” Bull says, “But this is what the Inquisition is here for. Could you please tell me how the hell I get a signal out?”

“What _for_?” Lavellan’s eyebrows shoot up, “And have _more_ of you and your lot traipsing about Skyhold’s grounds? Goodness, there’s a very sick old man living here - think what all this excitement will do to him.”

“ _I can hear you_ ,” Solas calls out from the third floor.

“Look at that, you’ve got him raving mad!” Lavellan says, “Listen, _listen_. Listen.”

Lavellan reaches out and pats his arm, looking gently mystified by the point of contact before shaking her head.

“I’m listening,” Bull says.

“Oh, good,” Lavellan nods, “Well, look. It’s quite polite of your Inquisition to go about defending people and such, but Skyhold doesn’t need it. You’re welcome to stay, of course - for now, at least - but frankly Skyhold has its own way of handling things like unwanted snoopy neighbors. Dorian, please stop trying to set up your - whatever it is.”

“It’s called a thermal sensor, Lavellan,” Dorian says from a few yards behind the Iron Bull.

“It’s garbage,” Lavellan says, “And it’s ruining my landscape. Look. All of you - just. Go inside, tuck into bed. I’ve got this. It’s my _job_. I’m the home care person in charge of Solas and that means not letting him get agitated by trespassers so much he throws his back shaking a fist at them. I’ll take care of it.”

“Lavellan,” Bull says, “I’m not saying you aren’t incapable. You’re very strong to be able to take care of Skyhold and Solas and manage everything you do here on your own. I don’t think anyone here can say otherwise. But this is different, this is - “

“ _Is that a human femur_?”

“Oh, you’ve found one? Good, I’ll need one, under the hyndrageas? Is that where? Could’ve sworn it was under the rhododendron.”

Lavellan skips around him as Bull turns to look at where Harding is pointing.

Lavellan pulls out an immaculate looking bone from beneath a large, leafy protrusion of hydrangeas.

It does, indeed, look like a human femur.

She looks at them all, a little defensive, “ _What_? This person wasn’t using it anymore, obviously.”

She whacks it against her palm.

“It’s a castle,” Dorian says slowly, “It’s not too unheard of for castles to be battleground sites. Plenty of bones have been found around castles.”

“In shallow dirt?” Harding replies, skeptical as Lavellan stoops down and starts digging, femur tucked under her arm.

Bull stares hard at the side of Lavellan’s face.

“Don’t disrupt my arrangements,” Solas calls out.

“I know, I know,” Lavellan yells back, “Go to _sleep!_ You know you get so cranky if you don’t get a full eight hours!”

“What do you plan on doing with that?” Bull asks. He already knows that not only will he get an answer he doesn’t understand, but it will also be one he doesn’t want to.

Whatever Lavellan is going to say is interrupted by a muffled scream.

Bull is moving before it even ends, and he’s at the other end of Skyhold’s western wall, when he sees Grim and Rocky gesturing at a section of ivy-coated stone.

There’s a skull and a spine hanging among the thick foilage.

“Aha,” Lavellan says, at Bull’s elbow. Bull jerks and glances down, he didn’t realize she had followed. “Clever, clever.”

Bull narrows his eye at her.

“I figure I have at least an hour before whatever it is you lot are so worried about comes charge in in earnest,” Lavellan begins -

“How do you know it’s an hour?” Harding asks, catching up to them. Lavellan ignores her in favor of holding up a pelvic bone in one hand and eyeballing it against the spine on the wall.

“ - So why don’t you all go inside and start up some breakfast? I’ll be in as soon as I find some legs and arms for this guy. And I guess some collar bones to hold up the arms.”


	78. Chapter 78

“Alright, Bull, what do I ned to know before I go into this?” Evelyn says and Bull can think of any number of things to tell her.

He could, for instance, tell her not to pay attention - or to, at least - not pay _too_ much attention to the sounds of many flying things outside of the windows. Or to ignore whatever she sees through windows and doorways.

He could also tell her not to trust the direction of the light she sees as an accurate judge of time or direction.

Bull could also tell her that the boy who will sometimes appear and give you peculiar looks, or murmur things under his breath doesn’t mean any real harm. It’s taken Bull three weeks to figure that out, and the boy still makes him uneasy. Especially when he does that thing where he seems half transparent.

He could also tell Evelyn not to mind it so much when her feet or her ears or her eyes betray her - he could tell her not to think too hard on it when things stop making sense. Like wax melting upwards or water dripping from places no water should be. Stones that seem warm and breathing, doors that resist being opened, sounds of radios or telephones from rooms that are clearly empty and exposed, shadows in mirrors or the feeling of eyes from walls - all of it is best left unquestioned.

Bull could tell her about the innumerable contradictory things she will see as soon as she walks past Skyhold’s gates. He could tell her about Lavellan and her contradictory way of speaking - the way that everything she says holds something deeper, like pearls in an oyster but meant for a much darker and velvet purpose. He could tell her about how Cole will know things about you that no one should have any right to know, things _you_ might not have even known. He could tell her about what kind of an ornery prick the homeowner is.

He could also tell her about how sick the man is, and how obviously dedicated Lavellan is to his care - even when she pretends she isn’t so attached. He could tell her about how the dying man is in love with this woman, and this woman is in love with this dying man and his aging castle and his wild land.

Bull could tell Evelyn that he, himself, is perhaps a touch infatuated with the woman and her Mobius strip vocabulary. Not in love, no, not yet. There is a possibility of it - Bull knows his weaknesses. He likes to know them even better up close. But there hasn’t been time enough for that. Soon, perhaps.

Evelyn waits, expectant, fingers tapping against the side of her leg - eyes flicking to the castle walls with nerves and stress and _tired courage_.

“You can’t make everyone like you,” Bull decides, clapping her on the shoulder. A brief look of puzzled surprise flashes across her face as she stumbles forward. He nudges her towards Skyhold - Cole is a faint half-green wisp of a person that disappears over the ivy tumble that cascades down one ruined and  crumbled wall. “So don’t take it so hard.”

“What? What did you tell him? How can he not like me already, I haven’t even met him!”

“I wasn't talking about Solas,” Bull says as the castle seems to _groan_ around them, just as they pass under the arch. “But don’t worry, he doesn’t like _anyone_ so that one don’t even bother with.”

-

“I have a problem," Bull announces, sitting down at the long and ornate wood dining table that Lavellan has decided will be used for breakfast today. It only took him two circuits around Skyhold - full of glaring mirrors, echoing howls, and grabby, catching brambles - before a door reluctantly opened for him. Skyhold likes to keep Lavellan for itself in the mornings.

“That’s terrible,” Lavellan says, placing a sunny-side up egg on her toast with an extremely exaggerated fashion.

“I saw Solas in the mirror,” Bull tells her, picking up a paper dated from thirty years ago off the table and moving it to the side.

“Don’t worry about becoming like him in your old age,” Lavellan says, “I promise you that your chances of having that many types of cancer is ridiculously low. Solas was incredibly unlucky in that all his misfortune caught up to him at once.”

“No,” Bull says as Lavellan carefully puts two pieces of bacon on top of her toast, “Thanks for that comforting thought, but _no_. I mean, I literally saw him in the mirror, glaring at me.”

“Unfortunate,” Lavellan says, “If you tell him to move he will. Is that why your shave is patchy?”

Bull brings a hand up to his jaw, “It is?”

“Other side, towards your ear,” She says, putting another piece of toast on top of the eggs and bacon, gently pressing the slices together.

Bull finds the spot she means and shrugs. It’s not like he has anyone else to impress with his good looks.

“Again, no, but thanks,” Bull continues as Lavellan takes a bite of her sandwich and looks incredibly disappointed while she chews, transferring her sullen look to him, expectant. “The problem is that he’s dead and I’m seeing him glaring at me in the mirror.”

“So?” Lavellan says after she swallows, taking a swig of - well. It’s liquid, definitely. Whatever else it is, Bull is drawing a blank.

“I’m fairly certain you don’t see dead people in mirrors.”

“He’s a dramatic tool,” Lavellan shrugs, taking another bite and letting out a high sounding squeal of pleasure when the yolk bursts and starts to drip. She hurriedly tilts the bread so it soaks into the sandwich instead of dripping.

“Again, true,” Bull says, “But being dead means you don’t come back.”

“And _I_ could have sworn that you saying you were leaving would mean you would go and take all your inane and bothersome garbage with you,” Solas’ voice says from the direction of a glass dish cabinet, “And yet there you sit.”

Bull looks up and sees a faint blur shaped like Solas in the glass.

Bull is old enough to know to pick his battles. He’s lived at Skyhold - on and off, granted - long enough to know that this castle has many of those. He’s also lived long enough, in general, to know when he’s on the right - and sometimes - winning side of one.

Bull turns to Lavellan who’s busy licking yolk off her long fingers. He shrugs and reaches to get his own slice of toast, ignoring the dead man who apparently lives on in reflections.

This explains - partially, or _probably_ \- why Lavellan didn’t seem too broken up over the old man’s passing.

“Regardless -

Solas isn’t too fond of the Iron Bull.

Lavellan is slightly more than fond of the Iron Bull. Skyhold, currently, is more fond of Lavellan than Solas. And, in hindsight, back then - when Solas was alive - Skyhold still liked Lavellan better.

Bull figures he’s good.

“Anyone else awake?” Bull asks.

Lavellan hums, sucking yolk off her pinky. The finger comes out of her mouth with a loud _pop_ as she flicks her own inner cheek.

“Well, this is the seventh time I’ve heard Dorian cursing as he walks around looking for us. I think Skyhold lets him hear us talk.”

Bull laughs, “ _Nic_ e _.”_


	79. Chapter 79

"He is going to die, and he will return to the place he was barred from, and he will be with the rest of them - the ones who were trapped on the side he wanted to be, while he was left to remain in their abdicated thrones.”

Bull freezes, every muscle tightening as he turns to catch the image of dull, flaxen hair hanging limply over a thin face.

To his knowledge, there are only two occupants of Skyhold - aside from Bull and the rest of his crew. Lavellan hasn’t mentioned anyone else, either.

The thin wisp of a boy - a young man, eighteen to twenty - stands next to him, shoulders hunched inwards, long fingers folded together in front of himself. Bull is struck with the strange image of a scarecrow without stuffing.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says slowly, “I startled you. I know - I do that to people a lot. I don’t - I don’t _mean_ to. I just forget. I forget that it’s different outside.”

The boy slowly tips his head up - dull, animal-like eyes that make Bull’s heart pound with _wrong_. Those eyes make Bull think of rabbits, mice, shiny beady eyed creatures that look without seeing.

“But he will die, soon,” he cocks his head to the side, an abrupt movement like a snapped neck. As if between one pulse and the next, the boy’s head went from upright and attached to _wrong angle_. “But you make it better. You, being here. They like you.”

“They?” Bull asks.

The boy nods, neck still at the wrong angle. Bull’s hands feel clammy.

“It is still dying,” He says slowly, “But with you here - you make her sweeter. You make her _happy_. You make her _shine_. She always shines. With her here, him dying feels less like murder. More like the proper march of time, the flow of it that runs calmly. When she came here they felt relief - it was not murder. It is death, but it was no longer murder, to let him die so. But then they were afraid that it was too cruel to _her_. His death.”

Bull is starting to see more about this boy - an almost green _sheen_ to him. Green like the figure Skinner says sees her on her walks. The ghost.

“But now you are here,” The boy’s neck snaps upright again and his voice takes on a surprised and bright whisper to the soft corn-rustle of consonants, “And it _isn’t murder!_ ”

“Are you the ghost?” Bull asks.

“No,” The boy answers, unbothered by the question, “I never died.”

That, Bull thinks, is not a helpful answer.

“Do you live here? How do you know these things, _who is they_?”

“I never died, I never lived,” the boy shrugs, picking at his own fingers, pinching at skin, “I’m from where they are but I stay here because she shines and it calls to the unsettled places and the lost things and the fading gloaming whispers of ages past. She makes things quiet - a whisper that slides softly, not the roar of protest. She makes it _easy_.”

The boy suddenly looks up at him, rabbit eyes and long face and flax hair.

“She will make it easy for you. When the pain leaves you, you will not notice except that when you breathe it will no longer taste like hot beaches and humid waves.”

A memory Bull refuses to take him here attempts to make itself _present_ when it is - as it should be, long past. Bull quashes it.

The boy nods once, more a bob of the head, “That’s right. It is the past. It shouldn’t hurt you anymore. I am Cole. I call myself Cole, sometimes. It makes it easy for people to have a name. I’m trying - I’m not as good as she is. I’m _learning_. You will, too. Unlearning a scar takes so much time.”

-

“Does it do that often?” Dorian asks, watching as the Iron Bull glares at them from a second story window. It’s the fourth time he’s passed and Dorian knows without a doubt that Bull’s been trying to get down to where they are this entire time. The castle’s been turning him around.

“Yes, the castle likes him,” Lavellan answers, scribbling down notes on some parchment - actual fucking _parchment_. “Well, _I_ like him, so the castle likes him because it wants me to be happy.”

Dorian turns to look at her, eyes flicking from her scribbles to her bent head.

“You like me and the castle doesn’t do that.”

“Yes, but I like you in a different way so the castle does other things. Like keep you from your breakfast,” Lavellan says, pausing, lifting her head to squint her eyes at some point in the distance. “Actually, no. That’s because parts of the castle remember _not_ liking you - the _me_ liking you part is that you eventually get to your breakfast and aren’t led into a grave.”

Dorian doesn’t say anything to that. He’s long learned not to, by now. It’s something Evelyn hasn’t quite yet learned - which is probably why she’s only stayed at Skyhold for a grand total of six and a half days over the past three years.

“What are you even doing?” Dorian asks, pressing a fingertip to the edge of the parchment and dragging it over to his side of the long wooden picnic table that sits among a wild mess of roses and peonies battling it out for sun-space.

“I’m figuring out the perfect recipe for an egg sandwich,” Lavellan says, “The key is the shape of the sunny-side up egg and the degree to which you’ve toasted your toast.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “And your criteria?”

“A good gush,” Lavellan says, pulling the parchment back without explaining further.

Dorian looks up again when he hears Bull yelling. Dalish is coming out the back, waving at him and looking incredibly smug as she walks over to them.

He turns to catch Lavellan shaking her head, smile tucked into her palm as she taps her pencil against the table.

“I don’t think Skyhold messes with me the same way,” Dorian says.

“Dorian,” Lavellan says, “You are undoubtedly one of the most clever people I know, but I’m of the mind that you’re being incredibly obtuse when you say that. I just told you I don’t like the two of you in the same way, so Skyhold doesn’t mess with you two in the same way.”

Dorian just continues to look at her, not quite getting it.

Lavellan sighs, the most put upon sigh in the world, “I _like-like_ , the Iron Bull, Dorian. _Obviously_.”

“Obviously?”

“The castle is pulling his pigtails for me,” Lavellan says, “Bad-castle, good-person. You know.”

“Ah yes,” Dorian blinks, drumming his fingers on the back of his closed book, “The old bad-castle, good-person routine. Tell me, how’s that going - having a castle be your wing-person?”

“Splendidly,” Lavellan replies, “Now shush and read your book. I’m this close to figuring out how to layer cucumbers onto this sandwich without it dissolving into a slippery mess.”


	80. Chapter 80

Solas is surprised - stunned, really - when he’s broken out of his monotonous and almost maddening silence by the sound of a very angry woman yelling outside. The voice draws closer and Solas stares at his closed door.

He knows that the last house keeper and nurse quit. He knows because he no longer pays his check, and he no longer gets annoying messages from the man’s agency.

He also knows that they couldn’t have possibly sent anyone new this soon - especially without forewarning.

His surprise and bafflement only grows when the doors swing open - not from a touch, but on their own, and a young woman storms in, glaring at him.

“You!” She says.

Solas feels his eyebrows raise.

She does not look like one of the others. She does not look like she slipped in from the otherside. But he can’t imagine any other explanation for why Skyhold opens its doors for her.

She points a finger at him, eyes narrowed with anger, “You’re the one who let the mint and the begonias and the peonies and roses get all out of sorts! How incredibly thoughtless of you!”

She pauses, taking in the sorry state of him - machines and haggard countenance, and most pitifully underdressed and not quite as thoroughly washed as he wishes he could be. He has been making trips to the wash room, it just takes so very long, even with Skyhold shortening the distance.

“You’re sick,” She says, hands on her hips, still angry, “And dying.”

“Yes,” Solas confirms. It isn’t as though he could say _no_. “How did you get here?”

“Through the _door_ , obviously,” The woman rolls her eyes, “How else would I get in?”

The roof, for one, Solas thinks.

“And you were just _let_ in?”

Her eyebrows raise this time, “What, is there someone else who was going to? Aside from you? If so, they’re doing a terrible job of keeping house. I was at the front door for five minutes and then I tried about six of the the other ones. How come you’ve got so many proper doors all well maintained and about a dozen holes in your walls?”

“How _did_ you get past the walls?”

“I climbed the ivy,” The woman shrugs.

Solas narrows his eyes, “And why did you climb the ivy in the first place?”

“Why not?” The woman replies, “Did you know that there’s a perfect circle growing around this castle? I saw it from up the mountain.”

“You came from _up_ the mountain?”

“Well, _yes_ ,” The woman says, “This isn’t about me, though. This is about how far you’ve let your garden slip and I’m here to tell you that it’s very awful of you.”

She goes on for a bit, and Solas mostly tunes her out - instead focusing on trying to see why Skyhold hasn’t thrown her out, attempted to harm her, or otherwise. The only conclusion he can think of is that Skyhold doesn’t mind her being here. Why, he has no idea.

Skyhold has never been particularly forthcoming on the _why_ it wants things, so much as the _what_ it wants.

Light - warm and golden and surprisingly bright - slides over the woman at an unnatural angle from the window. A bird sings, somewhere in the distance.

Oh, Solas thinks. _Oh_.

“What would your starting rate be?” Solas interrupts her.

The woman pauses, blinking at him in the middle of a long and drawn out rant about the dangers of slugs to cabbages and the best ways to combine vegetables and herbs to ward off insects while also creating a symbiotic relationship for soil recovery.

“What?”

“To live here,” Solas says, “Your starting rate to be the groundskeeper and to keep intruders away.”

“Intruders?”

“The people the agency keeps trying to send here to take care of me,” Solas clarifies.

“Oh,” She tilts her head. “Don’t you _need_ them to take care of you to live?”

“I don’t like them,” Solas answers, simply.

“But you like _me_ , a stranger who came into your home to yell at you?” Ah, at least, some sense.

“Not particularly,” Solas admits, “But Skyhold likes you well enough.”

“Skyhold?”

Solas slowly raises his hand to indicate the castle. “Skyhold.”

She repeats the name under her breath, taking a long look around. He supposes that’s the proper reverence this place deserves, and possibly one of the reasons why Skyhold has decided it likes her.

“That’s nice, but _no_.” She says, “You haven’t even asked me my name and you want to hire me? For all you know I’m a murderer!”

Solas almost laughs. _You and me both, then_.

“Are you?”

“No! But I _could be_ , maybe I was going to start with you!” She exclaims.

“I will pay you well,” Solas says, “And you could live here.”

“What if I don’t want to live here?”

“Well, it would appear you have very little choice in the matter. I thought you might like some money to soften the blow,” Solas answers.

Just as she’s about to answer, the doors behind her swing closed and she turns around, staring at them.

“As I said, the castle likes you,” Solas shrugs when she turns to gape at him, “And if you’re going to live here I might as well put you to work.”

The woman narrows her eyes, “Ask me my name.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lavellan, what’s yours?”

“Solas.”

“Alright, Solas, my answer is still no but I don’t think your castle is going to let me go so it’s a _fine_.. Anyway, I want it down on record that even if your castle hadn’t decided it wanted to keep me here and even if you didn’t offer me a job I would have stayed anyway until your garden was in a respectable order. So _there_.”

“Noted,” Solas says, amusement and wariness fighting with his own bone-tired weariness as she comes over to him, hesitance dogging her steps - she falters when she’s within arms reach of her. “Go on, girl, I don’t bite.”

Not anymore, at least.

“I’ve never taken care of something that wasn’t green and came from some sort of seed,” She says, tentatively reaching out for him.

“Old age isn’t catching,” Solas says, wry when her fingertips touch the back of his hand. “At least, not to my knowledge.”

“Do you have anything catching?”

“Well, if I did, it’s a little late for that, is it not?” Solas raises an eyebrow, “No, I do not. Go fetch a pen and some paper from that desk over there. I suppose we ought to set out some ground rules.”


	81. Chapter 81

"I like your sword,” the Sylvari says, Bull grunts. Said sword is lying on the grass next to him as he catches his breath. Lavellan stares down at him, blinking at him with a patient sort of curiosity that is both bright and gleaming. A child’s curiosity staring out at him through the face of a plant shaped in the image of man. Layers upon layers.

The Sylvari kill. The Sylvari wound. The Sylvari do not age. The Sylvari do not die. The Sylvari, simply _return_.

“Thanks," Bull says when he thinks he has enough wind in him to talk again.

She continues to look down at him, waiting.

He closes his eyes and gestures a claw at her, “Ask.”

“Why are you on the ground and how come you’re so tired and why is it that your war band is made up out of all sorts of people who are not charr because I thought a war band was only made out of people who are Charr but Krem isn’t a Charr he’s a human and Dalish and Skinner are Sylvari like me but not like me because Dalish was a day cycle bloom and Skinner is - well. I haven’t asked her yet,” Lavellan spills out, the words tumbling smoothly from her mouth like the flower petals and leaves that make up the false curtain of her hair.

“Cassandra Pentaghast,” Bull replies, “May be human but she is a war machine made out of flesh. That’s why I’m lying down and out of breathe.”

“Why? Did she run you over?”

“No, metaphorically yes, literally _no_ ,” Bull says, patting the ground next to him. Lavellan immediately sits, leaning over him to listen better. “We were sparring. Sylvari spar, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Lavellan nods, the petals of her hair bouncing with the energetic movement. “We spar a lot! It helps us learn what pain is good pain and what pain isn’t normal pain.” Lavellan points to her elbow, “I broke this! It wasn’t on _purpose_ , but I couldn’t tell exactly if that was a normal sort of pain that would go away like a bruise, or not. I asked one of the older Sylvari right away and they fixed it. Look! You can’t even tell that I ruined it at all.”

“Right,” Bull nods, “Anyway we were sparring and now I’m,” He waves his hand, “Recovering.”

Lavellan looks around, wrinkling her nose when she looks back down at him.

“Cassandra’s sparring with Cullen, now,” Bull says, gesturing in a different directly.

“How come _she’s_ not recovering?”

“Because she’s Cassandra Pentaghast,” Bull answers, shrugging.

Lavellan’s mouth twists into a frown but she slowly nods, accepting this little piece of fact into her mind. Bull has the oddly hilarious image of Lavellan - dying, murdered by Nightmare court or Orrians, or whatever the hell it is she gets thrown at next - and this memory being slipped into the dream for the next Sylvari to hatch. Or grow. Or whatever the verb is that Sylvari do.

An entire future of Sylvari who understand without question, _because she’s Cassandra Pentaghast_.

Not a bad legacy, Bull thinks.

Lavellan abruptly lies down next to him, he can feel the odd branches and curls of leaves that have escaped the confines of her clothes brushing against him.

She continues to look at him, blinking her child-like eyes.

She reaches out slowly and taps a finger against his nose and laughs, “ _Soft_.”

Lavellan blinks, “Is it rude of me to ask if Charr purr? Or meow? I’m sure other Sylvari have asked, but I can’t remember it very clearly. It seems - _mixed_?”

“When we’re kits, I think,” Bull asks. “It’s been a while since I was that young, honestly. I don’t remember.”

Lavellan sits up on her elbow, eyes bright with delight, “Do you think you can still purr?”

“Maybe?”

Lavellan’s mouth splits into a wide grin. Bull has a strange series of thoughts, thoughts he hasn’t had even for Dalish or Skinner or any number of the other Sylvari he’s met.

What are Sylvari teeth made out of? Do they have milk teeth?

Wait - do Sylvari even _nurse_? They’re - they’re _made_ fully formed, fully grown.

Also -

What does a Sylvari’s lips feel like? What, when she was dreaming her offshoots and children, did the Pale Tree imagine for the softest and most vulnerable pieces of them? The parts that were not bark and ivy and thorns and branches?

A strange thought to be having, Bull thinks, turning his gaze to the sky. A thought for later, probably.

-

“Why are we running?” Lavellan asks, falling just behind him as he lopes ahead. “What was that?”

“That is a call for a bounty, Sprouts,” Varric says, ears flopping as he quickly runs to keep pace with them, “And you know what a bounty means?”

“Bad people?”

“Money,” Varric replies, “Man, I always feel so bad whenever I talk to the Sylvari who just popped out of their pods. I feel like I’m ruining them or something.”

“Does that mean you’ve considered your negative affect on the world?” Sera asks, “And what a wreck you are?”

“Yeah, but obviously not enough to change it,” Varric laughs.

Lavellan looks between the two and then at Bull and then at the sky and then back at Bull.

“So - what’s a bounty, exactly and why are we running for it?”

“Because there’s going to be a giant mob of people also working to take this guy down,” Bull answers, “And if we want a fair cut we’ll have to get there to help. And they will need help. It’s a Bandit leader.”

“We’re running after bandits? But there are bandits all over!” Lavellan protests.

“This one is different,” Bull promises her. And sure enough he can hear the sounds of battle up ahead.

He reaches down and Sera reaches up.

Bull throws Sera ahead of them and Sera screams out with laughter, launching a grenade.

“No,” Bull says before Lavellan can say anything, “I am not throwing you like I threw Sera. Stay behind me and don’t do anything - “

Before Bull can finish that thought, something cold slides past him like a eel in water.

Bull groans, Lavellan is already in reaper form, spectral scythe raised as she laughs - an echoing, chiming sound that makes his hair stand on end.

“It’s like you two were made for each other,” Varric says as Bull unsheathes his sword, he begins setting up a turret, “Reckless and laughing in the literal face of death.”


	82. Chapter 82

“ _My_ fault?” She hisses, teeth grinding through pain and shock and a solid ache in her chest that builds and swells without ebbing, a wave that refuses to break - only to rise. And when it crashes she knows without a single sliver, splinter, _slip_ of a doubt that it will destroy everything underneath it. “How is _this_ my fault?”

Mahanon's scales are a dry and angry rasp, like breath through teeth made solid.

“I warned you,” his voice is so low, so quiet, so soft. The way it gets when he is well and truly infuriated. The way _their_ voices get when they are dark-eyed with _rage_. “I warned you time and time again - _do not trust him_. I told you that he could not be trusted, to keep him at arms length. I told him that he would _leave_. I told you but you _did not listen_.”

She laughs, a sound that’s more a gasping of air with her throat tangled in anger.

“And you think that my not following your advice then leads to this? That somehow, me choosing to have _faith_ proportionally leads this _this_?”

When she jerks the remains of her arm forward, it pulls and stings and her eyes water - pain blooming along her nerves.

What remains of them, anyway.

“How cruel of you,” She says, “How could anyone ever have predicted this? How can you blame me for my _hope_ and _my love_ and say that this is the consequence? As if I could have braced myself with this eventuality. As if I - in my choice to trust and be trusted - directly _chose to have this done to me_.” The wave builds, the wave foams, the wave seethes. “I did not call this on myself. I did not bring this down on me and you are unkind, unfair, and cruel to say that I did this to me. To us.”

Mahanon snarls, tail lashing, a half-moon of scratches over marble floors. Lavellan should care about what they destroy here - Orlais’ tolerance will only go so far.

But in this moment she is not the Inquisitor - she may never be that again - but she is Ellana and this is her fight. This is her war. This is her trial. These are her consequences.

“ _You chose him over me_ ,” Mahanon’s voice cracks sharper and more brittle than marble, “When you chose to trust him, you chose _him_. I warned you. You didn’t listen. I warned you repeatedly, this man is dangerous. What do you know of him? What has he given you but slights and lessons and tests and every reason not to try and hold on? No! Instead, like a selfish child you clung to him. Because he had something you wanted. Because you wanted something so very much that you blinded yourself to hoops he made you jump through to get the smallest tastes. Like some _circus_ animal. Like some performance piece - you never gave a _thought to every insult, every slight, every single moment he looked down on you_.”

Mahanon’s eyes are piercing because they are true.

“He was always worse than Sera in how much he hated what you were made of. Solas would never have loved you.”

She flinches hard, unsteady on her feet with pain and exhaustion and the rising tide that stings her throat.

Mahanon’s eyes cut away from her and his great body answers the rising tide in her. The unbreakable shore.

He’s leaving, she knows.

It is half in her throat to cry out _stay! Forgive me! Don’t leave!_

And it is also half in her to scream, _leave! Go! Get out!_

Mahanon leaves in silence and she watches him go with a burning throat and a scorching heart.

She turns and throws up into the bucket Cole had left by her bedside. She retches hard, body tight, everything burning.

This may possibly be the last time she sees him again. She knows that in her gut. He might be gone for days, months, perhaps even years. Maybe he’ll never come back.

But she might also die soon. Infection is very real and possibly very much so _there_ right now. The surgeons did their best. Solas’ poison was so very insidious, as is her own willingness to gulp it down. Mahanon is right in that regard.

Her remaining arm trembles with the strain of holding her up - unbalanced and tired.

The Iron Bull’s horned shadow - the only observer - is a mocking thing across the tile when he stands in the doorway Mahanon left.

Kata-kosts’ talons and wings on the stone railing are a stinging reminder of Mahanon’s departure.

She hears the eagle about to take flight -

“No,” She croaks out, mouth bitter, “Let him go.”

She, too, has her own pride.

Bull’s feet make close to no sound as he steps into the room and she snaps at him -

“Don’t come any closer. I gave you permission to stay, not permission to come.”

“You gave me permission to follow,” Kata-kost says. Her voice is not soft. It is loud against, even, the booming of Lavellan’s heart.

“Leave me alone,” Lavellan says, giving up and collapsing onto her uninjured side. Less uninjured side. She leans against the bed, wiping bile from her mouth with her arm.

The Iron Bull does not come closer, but he doesn’t leave. She can’t see his face clearly, not through her tears, not in the darkness. What a miserable and pathetic sight she is.

Kata-kost stares into her from outside. Lavellan feels a spike of _envy_.

The wave hovers at its apex.

“You are both wounded,” The Iron Bull says, “Something was wrong with him, too. He shouldn’t be out there alone.”

It was not as visible as her severance, no. But something in Mahanon’s body had - caved. For the lack of a better word. Something about his shoulder and his arm - matching hers - had withered. Sunken. Degraded. As if it had aged rapidly disproportionately to the rest of him. She doesn’t think anyone but the Iron Bull and his sharp eyed daemon noticed it. After all - the limb still had as much lethal power behind every thrusting and grasping snarling scratch as its other side.

“Good, let him hurt,” She says turning away. The vitriol boils in her. And it feels _good_.

Let him see. Let them all see.

These are the parts of her borne into her daemon, the parts of her that she forgets and wishes were not true. The parts of her that are inescapable, indestructible, incomprehensible.

“Go,” Bull says and Lavellan snarls. Enough magic in her to spark -

“ _I said leave him_ ,” She snaps, glaring at the shadow of the Iron Bull’s face. The wave hovers, gravity ready to tip it over, a curl that’s gone too long without finishing its spiral. “Tell me - have you _always_ loved your daemon? With her all seeing eyes and her denial of safe ignorance? Did you love her when she saw Seheron for what it really was, understood it before you were ready? Did you _love_ her when she knew the truth of what you were? Did you love her when she named herself a Tal-Vashoth before you were ever ready to consider it? Did you love her when she robbed you of your certainty? _Do you love her when she tells you every truth you know will hurt you?_ ”

And for a moment - this moment - Lavellan enjoys it. The pain. Is this Mahanon, or is it her? It’s the both of them. Lavellan basks in the vitriol and toxicity of her own envy.

She wonders if the Iron Bull is mad. Will he hit her? No. She does not think he will. Somehow, the thought just adds to the poison, the heat, the fire, the crashing roil.

The wave has crashed and it all rumbles out, spilling over itself in cycles upon cycles. Building momentum and power and speed.

“Because he and I - we hate each other. Oh, we _love_ , but we _hate_. I know he’s right. This is my fault. I didn’t listen to him, _myself_. But oh, how I loathe it that he’s right. The better half of me, the smarter half, the cleverer half - the half that will survive. The half that knows what to do and when to do it and how to best _be_. I hate him,” The laugh that lines her words is like smothering velvet, “I hate him and how he’s always right. I resent him for it. I resent that he’s right and that he’ll always be right and I - not once, not ever - seen the truth of a person without him with me.” Lavellan sneers, the wave turning inwards, hot and scorching - stripping to the bone every single soft lie to the hard and ugly truth. “Are there not times when you look at yourself and _hate_?”

Of the two of them, Mahanon has undoubtedly always been the better half.

The pain throbs in her bones.

And she flinches, not moving fast enough as she falls - unbalanced - onto her injured side. Lavellan’s vision blanks out through the pain of falling onto her still raw side, and she gasps for air, body rigid as the pain rings through her. A bell.

The Iron Bull picks her up and over the ringing in her ears she hears Kata-kost settling - talons clacking - on the dresser opposite the glass doors she flew in through; clipping Lavellan’s cheek - stinging - with her wings before gliding up and settling next to the wash basin.

Bull gently lays her down on the bed, sitting next to her, warm - kind - hands soothing her body in careful strokes.

“You hate. You love.” His voice is very low. Very deep. So quiet, so soft. Lavellan’s chest threatens to cave in on its hollow and dark spaces. “There is not one person in this entire world capable of only one of those things. It is because you love something that you hate it. And your daemon is you. You are not halves. You are a _whole_.”

“Fool star,” Kata-kost murmurs and Bull shushes her. Lavellan’s teeth grind together as she forces her mind into an arrow through the pain.

“You hurt right now. But it won’t always be that way,” Bull tells her. “Yes. I look at myself and I hate, sometimes. But not always. I can’t afford to hate myself always. Have you tried forgiving yourself, instead?”

Lavellan’s chest is gripped with pain. A memory of her own words thrown back at her. A sting as tangible as Kata-kosts’s feathers against her face.


	83. Chapter 83

"What, you’re sick of being a dad already?” Sera glances up when Bull strides into the room, “Your paternity leave isn’t over for another month.”

“Nah, Lavellan got sick of me,” Bull replies, checking his phone -

“Tell me you didn’t put bugs in your own home,” Blackwall says, leaning against the back of Sera’s chair. “No, what am I saying. Of course you did. And Lavellan approved it.”

“Both Lavellans approved it,” Bull says sitting down at the empty desk across from Sera’s. His own office is empty, but he figures there’s no point in going since most of his people are out and currently reassigned to other branches and departments.

“Does Pavus know that your house is rigged?” Sera asks.

Bull gives Sera a fond look and Sera bursts out laughing - “Do you have dumb tapes of him?”

“If I do, what makes you think I’d tell? Confidentiality, Sera,” Bull shakes his head. “Lavellan got sick of me being around so she kicked me out.”

“ _Really_?” Sera’s eyebrows raise up and she holds up her hand and flips off some approaching people - new people, Bull isn’t familiar with who they are. They look at Sera, then at Blackwall, and finally at Bull, before scampering off. “Tell me more. I didn’t think the two of you ever got sick of each other. I mean - Cullen and Evelyn _obviously_ because they’re two nervous wrecks and are fucking tragic around each other. Have you ever seen two adults lose all sense so quickly and so easily? - you two live out of each other’s pockets, basically.”

“She got sick of me,” Bull shrugs.

Blackwall and Sera both give him looks that say that they aren’t buying it.

“She got sick of not being in action so she kicked me out and told me to do stuff for her,” Bull concedes, “Also she told me that she loves me because of all the dumb heroics I pretend I don’t do, not because I’m good at changing diapers. Her words, not mine.”

“Gross,” Sera says, laughing, “Gonna text that to the bae.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better - Evelyn’s dragged her whole litter up with her to Skyhold and is hovering over Herah’s shoulder while breast feeding, changing nappies, and micromanaging the twins,” Blackwall says. “Herah is two deep breaths away from picking Evelyn up, throwing her in a truck, and pushing the truck down the mountain.”

“Dogs running behind and all?” Bull asks, fishing his phone back out of his pocket when he feels it buzz.

“Dogs and baby daddy and all,” Sera confirms, “Hey whats that?”

“Lavellans disabled half the cameras,” Bull says, holding out his phone to her and Blackwall. Lavellan’s placed signs that say _get to work!_ and variations of _fuck off to work!_ over half of them. “A woman after my own heart.”

“After it? She’s already _got it_ ,” Sera snorts. “Ugh, I can’t believe the two of you are this,” Sera waves her hand at all of him, “Even after getting hitched. Weird.”

-

“Hey,” Mahanon’s voice is a surprise. Ellana does not like surprises. It is one of the relatively few  qualities the two of them share - on the surface. There is a wealth of things underneath that they share, but this is one of the few things that rises to the surface easily. There are so very few things - superficial things - that link the two of them. She likes to be reminded of them, occasionally.

Just not as a surprise.

“For horses,” Ellana murmurs, phone between her ear and her hand, curled onto her side in the maternity ward of the hospital. Normally this would cause Mahanon to scoff, or otherwise make some sort of wry quip about how she talks like a shemlen now and how Bull and the others are a bad influence on her vocabulary. She would then argue back that maybe they’re a good influence and maybe Mahanon should take a few words from their books so maybe he wouldn’t stand out so much when he’s doing his super important spy missions.

“Vivienne managed to get a hold of me,” Mahanon says instead - cutting past and down, right to the core of the situation Ellana doesn’t know how to handle. Even if she is at the center of it.

Questions are so rarely voiced between them. Why bother to ask when they can just grasp the answer? Why ask _what’s wrong,_ why ask _how did you know_ , or _why did you call_ when the answer is already available?

“I don’t know how. I don’t care to know how. You did not tell the father of your child or your husband. You did not even tell Cole. How many sorts of foolish do you intend on being?”

“Every,” Ellana murmurs, curling up as much as she can. Her insides feel raw and red. And hot. Like they’ve been infected with salt.

Mahanon is quiet on the other side.

“When do you have to go?”

“I can be with you in hours. Say it. I’ve always been yours,” Mahanon replies. Ellana sniffs, wiping her damp face with the heel of her other hand. The phone is hot against her palm as she lies on it, trying to hide in a room with no corners - just curtains and the feeble attempts at privacy maternity wards like this one allow. She’s not here to give birth, after all. She’s here for overnight observation.

Vivienne insisted.

Ellana did not get this far in life by ignoring it when women like Vivienne insist on something in that particular way they have.

“I’ll tell them,” She says instead, “I promise. I just - “

“Okay,” Mahanon says when she trails off. He doesn’t say anything else. He starts to hum, though. Ellana closes her eyes and listens to the low buzz of his voice through the phone.

After a few minutes she stops him - “I love you.”

“I love you,” He doesn’t hesitate to respond. “Are you going to call them?”

“Yes,” She says. With his voice in her, she feels less raw. A cold towel over a fever. The doctors here will address the concerns that redden her heart, but Mahanon has helped hold her up to go through this treatment. “Do what your heart demands of you.”

“Always, sister,” Mahanon says, softly before hanging up.

Ellana breathes, wiping at her face one last time before slowly pulling her phone out from between her head and the pillow and swiping to the Iron Bull’s contact page.

She presses call.

-


	84. Chapter 84

"Hunter, Keeper,” Evelyn says, eyes firmly on the notepad in her hand, “I’m dispatching you to vet the Iron Bull’s Chargers and this Warden Blackwall. You should be able to pick them up on the same route. I trust your judgement. Keeper, I’d like for you to hold back and observe, but take up the main negotiations - Hunter, do your work as normally.”

Mahanon groans, slumping in his seat as Herah laughs and punches him in the shoulder. He ignores her and glares at Evelyn.

“You gave the others the _easy_ tasks. You want us to look at a potential information leaker and a mysterious potential _fraud_.”

“Well Mahanon, you are one of my best spies, no?” Evelyn muses. “Rogue and Scholar get to look at Knight-Commander Cullen and Sister Leliana. They fit within their purview. Rogue needs a second in command as Commander of the Inquisition to be so she can continue her duties on the front, and Scholar needs someone to assist in managing the documentation and flow of information in and out. Champion and Haggler check on Ambassador Montilyet and Enchanter Vivienne. They have the connections and familiarity with the whole - well. System. They line up.”

“What does Maxwell do? Look pretty and attract donations?” Mahanon sneers.

Maxwell preens from the other end of the table, “Not just _donations_ , Hunter, but _fans_. It’s such important work being the Inquisition’s main recruiter and best foot forward.”

“Two left feet tumbling forward,” Herah snorts, causing Malika, Edric, and Ellana to laugh.

“I’m hurt. I’m so very hurt that I’m going to start assigning you three the worst people,” Maxwell jots something down on a scrap of paper in front of him, “Look. See? I’m making a note of it right here. _Give Champion, Haggler, Keeper, and Rogue the worst recruits possible_.”

Evelyn raps her knuckles on the table, “Advisors, back to the main _point_. We’ve got multiple high ranking people of interest looking to join our Inquisition and I want to make sure that their interests - at the very least - don’t actively hurt ours. Mahanon, you’re one of my best observers and I trust your judgement of other people’s character. Warden Blackwall has made it hard for us to find him, but he could be very useful if we want the prestige of the Wardens supporting us. Supporting _me_.”

Evelyn puts emphasis on this last part because she knows Mahanon - after all their years working together - won’t deny her this. Not if it’s something for her.

Mahanon groans.

“You’re one of my best trackers, Mahanon. You won’t let him escape.”

Evelyn turns to Ellana, sitting across the table from Herah and Mahanon, directly at Evelyn’s left - who patiently smiles up at her. Already knowing.

“Keeper, I wouldn’t normally ask you to leave your duties here - they are very delicate and of the most utter importance. But based off of intelligence you’ve already gathered, I need my best to go toe-to-toe with this - this _mercenary_.”

Ellana’s smile brightens, “I’ve always wanted to test my mettle against a Ben-Hassrath, Evelyn. You do spoil me so.”

“Try not to scare him off too soon,” Evelyn remarks dryly, “At least not before getting anything interesting out of him first. Aside from, of course, what you’ve already gotten over the past few weeks. Again, Keeper, impressive work.”

Herah and Edric nod their agreement while Mahanon, Malika, and Maxwell dissolve into a squabble about who gets which horses.

Kaaras is absent, working on setting up a plan for how the Inquisition shall manage while missing six of its highest ranked officials - as well as how to pin down a hedge mage Ellana has found rumors of fixing aberrations in the Veil.

They’ll need him, as well.

“Just doing my duty, Inquisitor,” Ellana says.

“Above and beyond,” Evelyn reassures the woman. “I could ask for no better spymaster. Besides, if he is to work for us - well. You should have some sort of say in who operates under you, no?”

-

“So?” Malika asks when Ellana rides back in through Haven’s gates.

Ellana raises an eyebrow. Malika pointedly looks behind her stag as he slows to a walk.

“Hunter has gone off to let off some stress, the trees around Haven will be, undoubtedly, scarred,” Ellana muses and Malika glares at her.

“Keeper.”

“Champion,” Ellana’s lips quirk up.

“Fine, was the Iron Bull _good_?”

“Good?”

“As good as rumors say?”

“I don’t know, Malika,” Ellana replies dryly, “I’m not sure how thorough a vetting process you think I run. I didn’t bed him on sight to check if he was everything all the Orlesians say he is, if that’s what you mean.”

“Gross, Keeper,” Malika wrinkles her nose - “By the way, we’ve snagged a Jenny. You’re not going to like working with her, though.”

“Scholar can have her then. I’ll trade him for the Tevinter scholar they somehow tripped over. I miss all the good things, don’t I?” Ellana muses, sliding off of her stag, turning to press her face against his and do that - that elven thing she does before the stag turns around and lopes off into the woods. Malika watches; it never gets old. She still hasn’t figured out how the stag knows _when_ Ellana wants him to come back. “The Iron Bull is signed.”

She gestures to the leather tube slung across her back.

“He and his will follow shortly. Did Blackwall actually arrive, by the way? Hunter will be very cross if he has to go track the man down again, especially after we gained Blackwall’s word that he would stand with the Inquisition.”

“Yeah, he arrived this morning,” Malika says, “Did you two detour?”

“It is not very often Hunter and I get to be out and about, Champion,” Ellana shrugs. “To the original question - the Iron Bull is better than reports say. He’s honest.”

“Oooh,” Malika’s eyebrows raise up, “An honest spy.”

Ellana nods, “And the Inquisitor?”

“Busy trying to sort out resources. Noble is too good at his job, and while you all were gone he got a huge flock of greenhorns. Scholar and Haggler are doing their best to accommodate, but it’s going to get a bit messy.”

Ellana sighs, shaking her head before ruffling her hair.

“Any leads on the hedge mage?”

“You tell me, spymaster,” Malika shrugs, “Tell me more about the Iron Bull.”

“Good man,” Ellana says, shrugging, “The rest remains to be seen.”

“High praise, coming from you,” Malika says.

“We’ll see if it holds fast,” Ellana muses, eyes sparkling, “Scholar will like him, I think.”

“Oh?”

“Big man,” Ellana says, then winks at Malika, “Proportional, I think. Despite what rumors would lead you to believe.”

Malika laughs, “Keeper, _gross_. Oh man, I’m going to tell Scholar you said that.”

“Good, tell him while Hunter is in earshot. I want to see their faces. I feel like that ought to cheer Noble and the Inquisitor up. They must be so incredibly stressed. Remember this, Champion - you’re young - stress does terrible things to your health. It has long lasting negative effects so always try and find ways to laugh.”


	85. Chapter 85

The man nods, once - briefly and sharp -, as Bull summarizes the decoded information the Qun has sent. The first of many coded messages - proof that the Qun really is in this for the reasons it’s said upfront. He quickly rolls the paper back up and slides it back into the leather tube it came in, tucking the tube under his arm.

“I will pass this on to the spymaster,” Mahanon says and Bull’s eyebrows raise.

“Aren’t you the spymaster?”

Mahanon blinks, slowly. It is, on a man like that, telling.

“No,” Mahanon answers, simply.

“You’re the spy,” Bull says.

“So? You’re also the spy,” Mahanon replies, “Painter is also a spy, as well as any other number of people here. In fact, we have an entire spy network.”

“Alright, but you’re the spy,” Bull repeats, adding extra emphasis on the the, “Which sort of implies that you’re the end all be all of spies in the Inquisition. I was under the impression that you’re the top spy here. The spy master.”

“Being the best at something does not necessarily mean you are the leader of that group,” Mahanon says, fair brows raising on his face dark skin, “I am the Inquisitor’s favorite spy. I am her most often used spy. I am one of her most successful spies. I am one of the spies she trusts the most. But I am not the best spy in the Inquisition, nor do I lead the other spies in the Inquisiton’s employ.”

“Then who does lead the Inquisition’s spies?”

“The spymaster, of course,” Mahanon answers dryly. “And that person is - overall - the best spymaster of the Inquisition in that what better spymaster is there than the one that cannot be seen? Is that not, the Iron Bull, the reason why you’ve been sent outside of Par Vollen?”

Mahanon has a very good set of points. Bull finds himself surprised. His judgement of this Inquisition and its organization goes up that much higher. It’s slightly above average. He respects whoever was behind that decision.

He respects the spy who’s been placed in that position.

“Does anyone know who the spymaster is? Or do they all just report to whoever?”

“I know who the spymaster is,” Mahanon says, “And everyone who isn’t privy to that information reports to me. And of course, the rest of the Inquisitor’s high council knows as well.”

“The inner circle within the inner circle?” Bull’s still not entirely sure who that high council is, other than that they’re fellow founders of the organization and decided amongst themselves who would hold the main and public title of Inquisitor.

“Circles within circles within circles,” Mahanon shrugs, “Politics and intrigue. One of the common binding agents between cultures, I believe.”

-

“So this is the mysterious High Council of the Inquisition,” Dorian says slowly, looking around the room.

Edric kicks out a chair for him to join them.

“I don’t know how I feel about the fact that Maxwell is on this high council, of all people,” Dorian muses.

“Rude,” Maxwell says, lightly kicking Dorian’s leg underneath the table.

“Agreed,” Mahanon and Herah say at the same time.

“Dorian,” Evelyn gives him a wan smile - this war has been ugly to everybody, no one more so than the Inquisitor of Thedas. “You are one of my closest friends and one of the few that everyone assembled here trusts without hesitation or reservation. Agreed, High Council?”

“Agreed,” Everyone around the table says. Dorian refuses to get teary eyed over being told that he’s trusted.

“It is not - it is not usual for us to disclose who is on the High Council,” Evelyn continues, “For a matter of both safety and security concerns. It allows the council members to operate and see what someone of a high status cannot.”

Dorian thinks of how many times he’s seen these people walk through the courtyard or get into fights with visitors and soldiers and staff, and he thinks off all the conversations the seven people here must have overheard about various disagreements and disappointments.

This is a beautiful type of cleverness.

“We trust that once you leave these doors, the identities of those assembled here will remain secret,” Evelyn says.

Dorian does not bait them with the pushed line of or else what? He has no interest in harming them or the Inquisition. They’re his friends.

“We’ve actually called you here to discuss the matter of the High Council’s identity,” Kaaras says, leaning forward onto the table, fiddling with a scrap of paper between his large hands, “Certain members of this council believe it would be wise to divulge our identities to certain members of the Inquisition. We are of divided opinion on whether this should be done or not.”

“Obviously there are certain members outside of the Inquisition who already know of our identities and our roles,” Malika says, “Commander Cullen, for example, knows that he answers to Herah - call sign Rogue.”

Dorian turns to stare at Herah who flashes him a smile, “The Inquisition and its armed forces were around and organized long before the good Commander came into our ranks, Dorian. Did you think that was by happenstance and remarkably good sense on their side? We’ve come a long way from where we’ve started, but there are still those who would rankle under the idea of being lead by a Qunari mercenary. A former Knight Commander, however? One who’s served in Ferelden during the Blight, and Kirkwall? Mmm. They’d queue up for miles to follow his lead. They don’t have to know that his lead is actually underneath my own.”

“Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky,” Dorian muses, “The intrigue gets ever deeper.”

“And Amassador Montilyet knows that all trade and invitations are filtered through Noble and Haggler first,” Maxwell and Edric both nod their heads. “But neither Josephine nor Cullen are aware of other members on this council and their purposes.”

“And so you reveal all this to me for the purpose of floating other names to see who would be deemed trustworthy? Color me surprised. This level of trust in a Tevinter outsider? Unthinkable.”

“We’re the Inquisition,” Malika laughs, “We specialize in the unthinkable.”

“First we’d like to ask you about Solas,” Evelyn says, rapping her knuckles on the table to get them all back on track, “Scholar, Champion, Rogue, Haggler, and myself believe that we should divulge our identities to him and give him greater access to - if you will - what’s behind the curtain.”

Dorian glances around.

“Scholar,” Kaaras nods, “I’m in charge of organizing resources - books, materials, the direction of research, who goes where and such.”

“Champion,” Malika says, “Morale within the organization and communication between groups.”

“Hunter, Keeper, and Noble, however have their reservations.”

“Hunter,” Mahanon grunts, tipping his chair back to stare at the ceiling. Dorian looks at Ellana who smiles at Evelyn’s left, also turning her gaze upwards and closing her eyes.

“There’s something off,” Maxwell says, leaning forward onto the table - addressing the rest of the council as much as he’s addressing Dorian. “I trust him, he’s given us good information. And I’m not saying that he’s actively plotting against us or has some sort of agenda underneath that. But I think that something about the information he has is spotty. Dreams? Dreaming magic? All well and good, but why is he the only one? The only one who’s ever done that sort of thing? Where did he learn it? Don’t you tell me he stumbled upon it by accident. I don’t trust his sources. And I dislike the way he treats certain members of this council. Continue to let him do his work as he is now; I see no reason to divulge more than he needs. He’s doing good work as it is.”

“And he could do better if he knew what exactly he had at his disposal,” Malika insists, “If this is what he can give us with what he thinks we have, imagine what he could do to help us if he knew what we could get.”

Dorian looks between them and then focuses on Evelyn, “I don’t see why you need me. I think everyone knows that Solas and I don’t get along.”

“We need an outsider’s opinion, those of us on this council are too opinionated,” Herah says.

“As if I’m not opinionated?” Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You are,” Edric says, “So very, very opinionated. But we’re too deep into this. We want to know what you think. Someone who’s worked with him, as someone who isn’t sitting on this council and hasn’t already made up their mind.”

“I think that Maxwell’s right because dream magic sounds incredibly suspect,” Dorian replies, “But he is a good man, once you get past all the layers of irritability and snobbishness. I’m not mind-reader, I cannot divine what his innermost thoughts are for you.”

Sighs and murmurs from around the table.

“Noted,” Evelyn says, “And we have one other, and then we will adjourn for discussion at a later date. So far it is seven to one on this one.”

“I feel as though that should have it decided. Three to four is close, seven to one is not.”

“Ah,” Herah shakes her head, “You would think so. But no.”

“We are considering the Iron Bull,” Evelyn says. “And by we, I mean Keeper.”

All eyes swing to Ellana, who continues so sit very serenely. She opens her eyes and looks around at them, eyebrow slowly raising.

“The trouble is,” Mahanon says, sneering at the ceiling, “that Keeper is insistent that he should be allowed inside knowledge as to who sits at this table. Not necessarily the functions, but the faces.”

“He is on the edge,” Ellana says.

“You are playing a game,” Mahanon snaps.

“I am winning,” Ellana replies, “I am winning us an incredible asset, and I am reaching out to a man who has thought himself long lost to his past demons.”

“Keeper,” Maxwell says to Dorian, “Is our spymaster, controller and filter of all intelligence, communications, and every single observation, spy, reconnaissance, coordinated attack, ambush, scouting, sabotage, and infiltration mission the Inquisition runs.”

Dorian gapes, turning to Mahanon.

Mahanon ignores him.

“They like to mislead people, they’re spies,” Malika explains.

“The Iron Bull is also a spy,” Ellana says, turning to Dorian. “He is a spy for the Qun, one of their elite.”

“Andraste’s flaming sword, it’s just revelation upon revelation isn’t it?” Dorian exhales. “That should make it clear then, no? Don’t reveal the identity of your highest organization members to the Qunari spy.”

“He won’t be theirs for much longer,” Ellana remarks, turning towards Evelyn, “The Iron Bull struggles with the Qun, it is clear. It holds him because it is what he believes he was made for. But we do not remain what we are shaped from. We have the capacity for change and growth. He has long outgrown the Qun’s plans for him. The Qun does not realize it. He does not realize it.”

“We cannot wager the security of the Inquisition on hypothetical realizations,” Edric says, jabbing his finger down onto the table, “Keeper, you’d risk all of us and everything we’ve worked so hard to build for him and his - his redemption?”

Ellana’s eyes flick to Edric’s, lightning fast - a bolt striking against sand and crystallizing it even as it sprays upwards. A serpent that strikes from shadows.

“He is a loyal and good man, we must bring him onto our side. It is not redemption he needs or seeks. It is freedom. It is change. It is understanding. Regardless of past history - we want him to trust us. We want him to believe in us. We want him to stay with us. We want him to favor us. We do not want him favoring the Qun in these communications. We want him to argue on our behalf. And what better way to gain his trust than to reveal - at the very least - the identity of the spymaster of the Inquisition? It does not have to be this full council.”

“He’s too smart to just reveal one to him,” Kaaras says, “If he knows you’re the spymaster I’m certain that based on your interactions with the rest of us he will determine which of us have a higher role than first appears within the Inquisition.”

“The eight of us founded this group,” Malika says, “The eight of us built it from the ground up. The eight of us have been together the longest. He will know, Keeper. We can’t risk that.”

“She wishes to risk it because she is in love with the possibility of him,” Mahanon says abruptly, letting the legs of his chair fall down onto the floor with a loud crack, leaning forward across the table and glaring at Ellana. Herah puts her hand on his shoulder but he ignores her. “You are infatuated with this idea of him, this man you have imagined in your mind. Your are no longer yourself.”

Ellana’s eyes grow cold as she turns to her brother, “As if it were not your own love for Dorian Pavus that led us to this assembly here today.”

Dorian’s eyes snap to the side of Mahanon’s face.

This is no longer, Dorian thinks as the breathing silence grows, going to be about the Iron Bull, the Inquisition, or the matter of secrecy.


	86. Chapter 86

“I’m surprised by you,” Bull says, falling into step with Ellana Lavellan as she walks from Haven’s entrance to the stables.

“How so?” Ellana asks, waving at some of the training soldiers as they pass. “Should I apologize?”

“In a good way,” Bull clarifies, “You and the Trevelyans get along well. You and your brother, I mean.”

“Ah,” Ellana nods, “My brother and I are, naturally, quite wary of humans as Dalish elves, yes. Especially humans in power. But the Trevelyans, specifically Maxwell and Evelyn, have been our friends for a very long time.” Ellana’s eyes slide up to him, a slow glide that’s matched only by the spread of her smile. “Maxwell saved our lives. And so when the time came that he needed help, we broke Evelyn out of her Circle. The four of us have been close ever since. It was only natural that when they joined the Inquisition we joined as well.”

Bull hums.

“But still,” Ellana concedes, “We two are wary of others. Mahanon, I think, shows it more visibly than I.”

“You are, after all, the one talking to the admitted Qunari spy,” Bull points out.

“I find you interesting,” Ellana says, “You get to know all sorts of people. How can you determine if one sort is bad or not without first reaching out?”

“It works in my favor, but that’s probably a little dangerous,” Bull says. “Idealistic and nice, but dangerous in these times.”

“In these times,” Ellana repeats, “As if _these times_ were not words echoed at _every_ time in history. Time is what the living make of it. I, personally, have decided that it’s a time for understanding and investigations rather than exclusion and isolationism. You will notice that this would make me horrifically unpopular among the Dalish. In fact, they call me a little upstart. Not in those words, exactly.”

Bull snorts, “Are the words more colorful, by any chance?”

“A veritable _rainbow_ ,” Ellana nods, putting a hand on the pen fencepost and starting to climb over it. Bull doesn’t offer her any help, this is familiar enough that she’s gotten it all on her own. None of the horses even give her a second glance. “Now, if you would excuse me, some of these beauties need some exercise. I keep telling Dennet that it would be just fine to let them wander the forest, but he insists that it isn’t safe enough. Isn’t safe enough! As if we don’t have soldiers, archers, mages, and everything in between on the look out; can you imagine? Not safe!”

-

“You are compromised by your feelings,” Mahanon says to her, almost two weeks of silence and carefully orchestrated avoidance later. Now, it is just the two of them to air their grievances at each other. It is beyond the Inquisition. It is beyond the Breach. What festers between them is now just that. Between them.

“And you are not?” Ellana replies, surrounding herself in calm. They are brother and sister, this is not what breaks them apart. No man, woman, or person should ever have that power. To break brother and sister apart. “You and Kaaras wanted Dorian. You wanted him. You wanted to hold him and be held by him - and to you the secrecy of your and Kaaras’ membership on our council, at Evelyn’s side, the secrecy of your role in the Inquisition was something you must lay bare for the truth and honesty of a relationship to be built. It just happened to suit your desires that we needed an outsider for verification of Solas’ trustworthiness.”

Mahanon is unflinching, unrelenting.

“Yes,” He says, “I acknowledge this. There were selfish reasons behind Dorian’s nomination. It could have very well been Harding or Varric. But sister, the Iron Bull? You do not want to build a relationship with him. I know this, I know you. What you seek from this is not the foundation I was looking for with Dorian. You wanted it as a bargaining chip, a sugar cube to curry a horse’s favor, the glittering gem to call a bird closer. You are gambling, sister.”

Ellana has searched herself for these past two weeks, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” She says, “In many ways I am like the Wolf in the stories. I do what is good for the wrong reasons. There are facts, brother.”

“Tell them as they are.”

“The Iron Bull is a Qunari spy who admittedly has submitted himself to reconditioning because he could not face the horrors of the wars he was crafted for. He is a man who has had doubts and sees them. He was sent here to watch and observe. The Qun hopes that with distance and time he could become the soldier he once was, the weapon.”

“Yes,” Mahanon nods, “And so?”

“And so I believe this is wrong, this is an unrealistic hope. This is something the Qun and the Iron Bull know to be untrue. They would have left him to languish forever - they would never call him back to their wars. If he was once their sword, he is now a broken one.”

“And what do you wish to do with this broken sword?”

“Show him that he is broken,” Ellana says. “He ignores it. He closes his eye to the truth of it. He knows that in his heart he does not want what the Qun has crafted him for. He does not think of the Qun’s victory as a personal thing - he wills it far away when he is dead and everyone he knows is long gone. He wants the Qun’s victory to happen to someone who is not him, to somewhen and where he is not. That, my brother, is not the mindset of a man who is recovering his faith.”

“You wish to shake him from his denial. To what end?”

“To make him ours,” Ellana replies.

“Yours?”

“ _Ours_ ,” Ellana insists. “His own. Ours. Whatever it is that means he opens his eyes to truth again.” Ellana slowly turns her hand, palm up. Mahanon immediately crosses the distance between their bodies with his own hand, sliding their fingers together. “But you are also right. It is a game between spies, my brother. I want to test myself against him, I want him to sharpen me and to be sharpened by him. In this, you are right. Knowledge is a bait. But over that, or perhaps parallel, I want this as well. You know I have never liked to see people suffer from their own ailments.”

“No,” Mahanon agrees, “But sister, you cannot wager with this. Wager with your own secrets, but do not use other’s for your own. Your games are not the rest of ours. You are not the only one who needs to use them.”


	87. Chapter 87

When Bull gets tired of crunches and push ups, elbow stretches, and ankle touches he grabs the long neck of a bottle of vodka and steps out onto his balcony. The cold night air lathes against his skin, and he stares out into the night.

There are nights like this when his mind does not let the rest of him sleep. The only option then is to stay awake. He has lived with himself long enough to know that his mind cannot be tired out, or droned into monotony. Exercise is something to do while the mind reels itself through whatever course of memory it’s been placed in. The mind is busy, so the body has to follow.

Bull isn’t stupid enough to work out for eight hours a night.

Nor is he going to fuck his way through this. What - he’s supposed to call someone every night his memories decide they don’t want to be memories? What a dumb idea.

So he can’t fight his way out, he can’t fuck his way out.

He’s not going to drink his way out, either - heavy drinking, especially alone, is not one of his many vices.

Bull catches sight of a figure in the courtyard, and for a moment he dismisses it as more memories. More figments - the ticking of the clock sometimes blends in with the bombs at Seheron, and there are days when he can’t eat out because his mind screams too loudly of hidden dangers he knows can’t be there.

But it is not a memory.

Bull focuses on the figure. And after so long _not_ focusing his vision on anything - just letting himself move by the safer memory of his apartment and routine - that it startles him when the world comes back into focus.

It’s Ellana in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, standing in the middle of the apartment courtyard, looking out towards the privacy hedges that separate the ground floor from the prying eyes of the street beyond.

He watches her for a bit, curious at what she’s doing. Meeting someone?

Ellana slowly turns around in circles, standing in the same spot.

Ah, Bull thinks. Confused.

More familiar routine.

“Hey,” Bull calls out.

Ellana’s head snaps up to him and she relaxes.

“Ah,” She calls back - voice wavering -, “I don’t know how I didn’t see you up there. Look at you, you’re a veritable poster for the masculine. I’m surprised you haven’t lit a cigarette.”

Bull laughs, “Shit’s bad for the lungs.”

He can tell Ellana is eying the bottle hanging from his fingers.

“And you prioritize your lungs over your liver?”

“For all you know this is water,” Bull shakes the bottle, stepping onto the small little sliver of balcony ledge and leaning onto it. “You alright? Did you get locked out again? You need me to let you in?”

Ellana slowly shakes her head, “I remember it. I think. The passcode. And my door is unlocked.”

Ellana rubs her left arm, massaging her hand.

“Do you want a drink?” Bull asks. “So we don’t wake the neighbors.”

Ellana looks skeptical.

“No one’s here but me,” Bull says, “I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

Ellana shrugs a shoulder, “Alright. I’ll be up.”

“You sure you don’t need me to get you?”

“No,” Ellana says slowly, “You’re the fifth room on the right.”

“I’ll open the door,” Bull says and Ellana nods, more tension leaving her. He watches her disappear past his line of sight as she goes back to enter the apartment. He waits to make sure he hears the sound of the door opening and closing before he goes to unlock his.

He doesn’t know much about Ellana, but that’s because there isn’t much to know.

Pentaghast set her up in this apartment building - first door on the left on the third floor - about five or six months ago. She wanted Ellana to be somewhere safe.

(“You all take care of each other,” Cassandra had said as Bull and the rest of them helped move Ellana’s things in, “And she won’t say it, but she needs that more than anything right now.”)

Eight months ago, Ellana Lavellan woke up from a six month coma with major nerve damage on her left arm, partial hearing loss in her left ear, the inability to move two of the fingers on her left hand, and complete amnesia of the one month she was missing before her coma. To compound it all she had lost the ability to read or write.

This is particularly tragic in that prior to this, Ellana was a scholar of religious literature and linguistics. There are boxes upon boxes of books that Bull moved up into that apartment that day. She can’t read a single one. The words scramble and she can no longer recognize the letters.

So everyone else reads them for her.

Despite everything, Ellana’s memory is wicked sharp. Probably better than Bull’s.

Ellana shows up at his door with a book in her hands. This is also familiar, routine.

Ellana has shown up at most of their doors at one point or another - invited and called over - with a book in hand. Usually she only needs it read once or twice to her, and then she has it. Then she sets in on the corrections.

She closes the door quietly behind her, and despite all the times she’s been over she still walks in a little uncertain, a little bit a stranger.

Bull throws a blanket at her head. She fumbles catching it, but she wraps it around her shoulders - she looks like a little kid playing at being a ghost.

She shuffles over to Bull’s couch, and flops down. Bull joins her, and she curls a little into him, tentatively holding the book out to him.

“What were you doing?” She asks, “You looked like you walked out of a Hemingway novel. Or perhaps just starred on _A Street Car Named Desire_. Something like that.”

“It’s the rippling muscles, isn’t it?” Bull teases, “I’m not about to go screaming your name up a staircase. I mean, it’d be funny but I think Herah would throw my ass down the elevator shaft.”

“Herah wouldn’t do that,” Ellana replies, “Josephine would beat her to it. Josephine needs her sleep.”


	88. Chapter 88

The apricots are too ripe. They split open with the slightest touch, ejecting their pits and oozing out their flesh from their thin, soft skins. Ellana looks around and releases the ruined fruit, wiping sticky residue on her pants.

She should not be here alone. But she has _never_ liked being dependent on anyone for anything. Never. She knows that Cassandra had asked the other people in her new apartment building to go places with her, under the pretense of other things - to save Ellana’s pride.

Even if it weren’t for the fact that her arm is liable to act up at any time - the remaining three mobile and feeling fingers on her hand spasming with pain that Ellana herself can’t remember the cause of, her joints locking up all the way to her shoulder - and she gets - confused so easily now.

The person she was before would despair over the person she is now.

All those things she thought she’d have a chance to read, all the things she thought she’d have a chance to write. All the things she never bothered to burn into her memory because she thought she didn’t have to.

Ellana likes to think her memory is pretty good, her ability to remember and retain commendable, even. But even she isn’t capable of the kind of recall her soul longs for.

The words jumble in her head, and it kills her that she can’t be certain of the exact order of them, the exact tone and the exact _place_ of them.

There are boxes upon boxes of books in her apartment - empty shelves, empty places where they should go but she can’t bring herself to put them there, where she can see them. Where they can see her.

Logic says she should give them away - to some library or school, to some children’s group, sell them even if she were so bitter. Better in the hands of someone who could appreciate it than hers who didn’t appreciate them enough. But in her heart there remains a fire that refuses to go out. A lingering hope.

In her heart burns an unquenchable flame - an _envy_ and jealousy both. To have what others have, to have what she has lost.

She wishes she can remember _how_ she lost it all. What was she doing there? _Where did she go_?

All questions Cassandra herself would like to have answered, Ellana thinks as she passes the apricots.

Ellana should not be here alone, and her shoulders prickle with unease. Even if she was deemed innocent at first, there are still those who would very much like to pick her brain for anything she might have forgotten. For a truth that does not exist.

Torture can make anything true if you hurt someone enough for them to will it.

She shivers, a memory her body has but she doesn’t. This happens sometimes. Things will trigger her body to react in ways she never thought of.

As she walks past the rows of fruit with bargains and descriptors she can only guess at, she pulls the shroud of words over her.

She is, increasingly, remembering things in voices that are not hers. Whatever it is that voice inside your head sounds like, the one you think and recite in - it is no longer hers, but the memories of other people.

Dorian’s voice, reading through the newspaper for her while she makes him eggs and ham for breakfast before he goes off to uni - another pang of jealousy and envy, there - and catching her up on news that she can’t read for herself anymore.

Harding idly reading coupons and deals from magazines and emails as Lavellan helps her carry her bags from her car to her fourth floor apartment.

(“Shouldn’t you switch with someone if you always have this much to carry?” Ellana had asked. “Like maybe Sera and Dagna? They never leave their apartment.”

“Trust me,” Harding said, “You don’t want either of those two stomping on your ceiling.”)

Quiet and reclusive Cullen from the back of the first floor, quietly reminding her and coaxing her through lines from plays and short stories she analyzed and studied and wrote papers on so long ago.

The Iron Bull, in the quiet of the night, with his certain hands holding book open like people, and his steady voice calmly adjusting to every single detail she tells him to add - _no, the stress is on the first word, yes, faster, the pace has to get faster, angrier here, calmer, this is where it releases, no, like this, repeat it again, again, again, yes, yes, yes_ \- without complaint or impatience with _her_ impatience.

It is his voice, now, that wades in from the recesses of her mind to play back the words she wants. It hurts her pride, to have to ask someone else to read for her. To give her back the pieces of her soul.

It is humbling, it is exposing - it is saying, _this is what my soul needs, this is what my heart flourishes under, this is what speaks and stays with me, echoing inside, this is what I needed_.

She didn’t care as much before, about what people saw when they looked at her library, when they saw her books and her papers and her studies. Maybe it was because she could always hide it, the parts she didn’t want them to see. She could lie. She didn’t have to tell them all the things she’s read, the thing’s she enjoyed, the parts she did and did not care for.

But here, now, - starving for them - she has to bring them to someone else to return them to her. Ellana tries to pin them down in her head, to keep them, but it is so very hard. She isn’t that good, and the part of her that lost the ability to take the letters in also has a hard time holding them still.

But the Iron Bull says nothing. He just reads the way she wants him to. He’s even started to learn how to correct himself - to anticipate how something should be read.

He must have opinions, Ellana thinks as she stares blankly at a wall of colors and shapes. One of these is tea. One of them is even decaffeinated tea. Possibly _more_ than one. It could be the one staring her in the face.

Again, pride tells her not to ask. She grabs one at random, and throws it into the cart. Fruits, vegetables - even meats - are easier to pick. She hates the boxes that disguise themselves with such clever and pretty packaging.

The Iron Bull’s voice, reading the words that she welcomed into her soul before she became this person, lulls her again. Smooths her fraying and crackling edges.

She wonders what his opinion is on them - the things she brings to his door like a cat or a dog. Surely he must have some opinion on them. Everyone has an opinion on everything. Even having _no opinion_ is an opinion of a sort.

She is shy and afraid to ask what his is.

Ellana, proud again, will accept his charity as it is. She will not ask for more.

Ellana pushes her cart deeper into this maze of deals and bargains all proclaimed in ways she can’t parse, and longs for the words that were taken from her.

(Or did she give them away?)


	89. Chapter 89

She does not fight when they catch her. Ellana holds still, calm, limbs loose as they tie her even though her heart snarls and beats at her temper. She is not a thing meant for cages and shackles. But she does not resist.

She does not resist when they _think_ that they have caught her. She does not struggle when they haul her towards their dungeons. She says nothing when they think to make her fearful - their words, their threats, their pitiful attempts at showmanship and rumor.

Ellana waits, legs tingling and numb, arms much the same, and she _waits_.

She closes her eyes when they extinguish the torches to leave her to waiting in the cell. She is not afraid of shadows. Ellana _is_ a Shadow. She is an Arrow of the Gods, she is meant to fly silent in the night. Arrows do not need eyes. Arrows only need to _land_ where they have been sent.

And she has already landed.

“This is the assassin from the Dales?”

Ellana opens her eyes, waiting from them to adjust as she focuses down - her neck aches - and she slowly raises her head to look at the ones before her.

Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine. Cassandra Pentaghast, Right hand of the Divine.

And in between the left and right, the Iron Bull. Herald of the shemlen Andraste. Distincintly _not_ shemlen, himself.

He is everything the rumors say. Young, tall, broad, cocky. And underneath - thinking. Clever. _Wondering_.

“Assassin, no,” Ellana says, voice low, “Of the Dales, yes.”

“She was caught lurking outside your chambers.”

Ellana does not look away from the Iron Bull, she raises a challenging eyebrow.

He narrows his eye at her.

“Caught? Or _seen_?” He asks slowly.

“Caught,” Cassandra says, firmly.

“Seen,” Ellana corrects when the Iron Bull looks at her.

“Why?” Bull asks, not coming closer. But the hook is in his mouth.

“To prove my good intentions,” Ellana shrugs as much as she is able with her arms bound behind her back. “I come to this Inquisition on the request of the Keepers of the Dales. They wish to extend a hand of assistance.”

“And why would the Dales do that?” Leliana asks, “The Dales are busy with their wars. Why would they look towards this and offer assistance?”

“Because the sky belongs to no one,” Ellana says, “And you would be a fool and a selfish, egotistical narcissist to think that the sky is any single person’s cause to champion. I am of the Dales, yes, but we of the Dales bleed and breathe, we look to the same stars as you - though by different names. We of the Dales want this problem solved. Fast. And it was judged that your Inquisition is sorely lacking.”

Pentaghast’s face is flush with anger and the Nightengale’s is cold with calculation.

“What?” The Iron Bull preses, “What is that you think the Inquisition lacks?”

Ellana looks between the two women and focuses on the man in front of her, switching languages easily -

Qunlat is not as smooth on her tongue. This is in part because of how so much of it has been lost. And also because of how - formulaic it is.

“Your Qun has sent you to these lands to watch, to learn, to observe. They see impatience in you, a desire to grow and advance. Within you they see an unquenchable flame and desire. You want to be useful, you want to see what your use is being put towards. You want to taste results. You want the machine to work perfectly. So they sent you here, young _Hissrad_ , to show you. They wanted to show you what it is your Qun has struggled against, what your Qun has resisted through all these years of slavery and slow degradation.”

The Iron Bull’s eye widens.

“My people remember when yours were the precursors - not yet horned, but still tall and gray and _proud_ ,” Ellana continues. “We remember. We remember this, as we remember all things. Your Qun has sent you out into the world to see what it is that has trampled and thrown your kind down low. They want to even your temper, young spy. They want to stoke your passion in a way that suits them. My people sent me to regain mine, here. Through this struggle to fix the crack in the sky.”

Ellana switches back to Trade, softly, “The Dales extends this hand willingly, and they will only extend it once. Say no here, and no further inquiry will be made. The Inquisition, for better or for worse, stands alone.”

“The leaders of the Dales really sent _you_?” Leliana asks, “No missive, no formal invitation?”

“This is a formal invitation, fledgling,” Ellana answers. “First I was to observe and see how to best win you over. But they grant me freedom of choice in how I handle this matter. And I decided that if I did not reveal to you the hand extended sooner - as unstable and precarious as your position is at the moment - you would not stand long enough to extend one to later, once motives and direction were decided. So here I am.”

“They don’t know you’ve come out and said it,” Bull says, eyebrows raising, “They think that you’re just - observing?”

“For now, yes,” Ellana confirms, “I had not informed them that I would make contact so soon.”

“We have a member of the Dales here, at our disposal,” Leliana says, “And they do not know.”

Ellana can guess at the things they want to pry out from her. There will be nothing. She is but a Shadow. She is everywhere, she is nothing, she is all consuming, she is not missed.

“If it so pleases the Inquisition, deny this hand. But who better to stand with you than the Dales?” Ellana says, “Our kind have quickened, our borders have shrunk, and our might is not as it once was. But we have remained, unbroken and unflinching, through the test of time. Our people have seen yours rise and fall, ours have survived the attempts of your kingdoms and their marches and their wars. And the Dales offers the knowledge that comes with that age freely.”

“Take the offer,” Bull says, “That’s too good to pass up. She’s right.”

“That's not your call,” Cassandra says.

“Then why did you bring me down here?” Bull asks. “You can’t wave me around as a mascot for your military group and then take it back when I have input.”

“He’s right, this offer is - it’s more than anything else on the table, Cassandra,” Leliana says. “As much as I dislike working _with_ the Dales - no one else in Thedas wants to deal with the most pressing problem at hand.”

“I do not like this, the Dales cannot be trusted,” Cassandra says.

“And yet they are the only ones with sense to realize that a damn hole in the sky is something that can’t be fixed with internal fighting,” Bull replies, wry, moving towards Ellana and pulling a knife from his belt, “I’m cutting her loose.”

Ellana’s eyes catch a faint glimmer of green from his hand as he moves behind her to cut her ropes. Ellana tests her hands, her fingers as she feels him cutting - his larger hands calm and sure on her arms as he holds them still.

“Why do you show no fear?” The Iron Bull asks softly in Qunlat, now that he is close.

“Of?”

“They could have killed you,”  He says, “They should have killed you. You are a Dalish spy.”

“I do not fear death,” Ellana replies, “Fear is for those who have anything left. I am a Shadow - less than a Shadow. For me there is nothing but purpose. My purpose was to come here and extend a hand. If that hand should be cut, so be it. My purpose is complete.”

She knows that he is discontent with that answer.

She knows that she should be as well.

It is the truth. And the truth is rarely satisfying.


	90. Chapter 90

"Of course I want that! _Of course I want that! Who among us does not_? We all want our graves, we all want the forests that sprung from the bodies of the fallen, we all want our temples, our market places, our homes back,” Lavellan says, flame licking up her words and cracking her voice, “You think we do not? We have lost our graves, our sacred places - the Temples of Dirthamen and Andruil, Fen’Harel and Elgar’nan. We have lost our sacred places - _Skyhold, even, was ours once._ Of course we want them back, but _we cannot_.”

“And why is that?” Sera asks, “Why is it that you all lock yourselves away and think you’re better than the rest of us who were stuck being born outside? Why do we have to look at you and all the supposedly good stuff you have and we can’t have it because we weren’t born to it? What makes you so special?”

“It isn’t so simple,” Lavellan replies, “If it were that simple anyone who came to our borders would be welcomed as the brothers and sisters they are. _But it is not_.”

“And why isn’t it?” Sera challenges.

“Because _I do not break promises_ ,” Lavellan bursts out, “We of the Dales _do not break promises_.”

“Yes, yes, your stupid promise to stay to your lands and turn a blind eye,” Sera sneers.

“No,” Lavellan cuts the air with her hand, eyes narrowed in frustration, “My promise, _our promise_ , to the rest of our people. To the ones born in the Dales, to the ones who have already been accepted into the Dales. To be of the Dales is to enter a covenant, Sera. When we accept those from the outside in, we must consider - _can we protect them_? Can we give them a place of their own? If we accept them, what retribution do we call upon ourselves? Can we handle it?”

Lavellan waves her hand outwards, “We look at all the things we have lost, the smallness of our nation - and we must balance our _desire_ with our _future_. We _desire_ our brothers and sisters to return to us, we _desire_ for our lost places to be filled with out breath again. But can we _justify that_? In a move to claim the Temple of Dirthamen, or to accept in a clan of elves wanted for destruction and murder, what consequences do we bring down upon those we have already sworn to protect, Sera? We of the Dales must make that choice every time we consider who and what passes our walls. If we take there must be reprisal, and when that reprisal comes - can I justify whatever it is I took to my entire nation? _I need a guaranteed win,_ I need to be absolutely certain that whatever I do - whatever I take, whoever I shelter - I can do it without breaking my existing promise to protect the Dales. It isn’t as simple as you think, Sera. The right thing is not always the best thing to do - no matter how much we wish it to be.”

-

The blade is a faint image, a glowing wisp - not quite like Vivienne’s spirit blade, somehow - fainter. Like one of Cole’s daggers.

The man collapses, not a single drop of blood. No entry wound, no exit wound.

Lavellan’s blade disperses, fading from view and she returns the hilt to wherever it was before she drew it.

“Impressive blade work,” Bull says. “Still alive?”

“A good blade cuts only that which it is intended to cut,” Lavellan replies, “And I have no need of anyone here dead. Yet.”

“Never seen that trick before,” Bull says.

“That is because your exposure to the ways of the blade are limited to the bastardized version the shemlen Circles tout,” Lavellan rolls her eyes. “Tasteless, really. Have you met the people the Inquisition thought I should train with? A delusional and addled woman who refers to herself in third person as _Your Trainer_? An arrogant loose lipped pretender who would tell me that _I,_ Commander of the Emerald Knights and most Holy of the Dales, do not know the swordsmanship of my own _people_?”

“You forgot the Necromancer,” Bull says.

“I did _not_ forget the Necromancer, I have no qualms with the Necromancer. He stays out of my way and occasionally nods his head when I pass. I stay out of his way and make polite inquiries as to whatever it is he does whenever I find myself in a situation where it would be rude not to. His answers are to the point and spoken plainly. We go our separate ways all the better for it. He knows respect,” Lavellan’s lip curls up briefly, “As do you.”

“I try not to fuck with forces beyond my ken, most Holy,” Bull says, gesturing for the woman to proceed him as they continue deeper into the stronghold. Lavellan raises a hand as she passes him, and with a sharp twist of her wrist the next five torches ahead of them light up in bursts of pale green flame. Her fingertips just barely graze his chest - warm with magic and heat. He eyes her warily as she passes, soft smirk on her mouth. “Or question them overly.”

Lavellan makes a soft sound of approval, “A good soldier, a wise man. I’m sure that’s kept your head attached to your shoulders when your mind had opinions that would have certainly had it removed.”

“No comment,” Bull says just to hear the soft huff of her laughter as she shakes her head.

“I am glad to have met you, the Iron Bull. I do wonder if you and yours would have ever come to my borders if things went differently in another life,” Lavellan turns to glance at him over her shoulder; her expression is hard to read in the dark but he knows it’s a good one. “And now I upset myself, thinking of a world that is not. A world where I do not get to meet you.”

“I’m flattered,” Bull says, “But I think that we would have met in any world, regardless. There are just some lives who are too big of a deal to avoid.”


	91. Chapter 91

Skyhold is unusually _hesitant_ today. As if waiting, anticipating something. Not in a bad way, Bull thinks. He doesn’t feel as though it is in a bad way.

The door to the kitchens opens with a moderate, almost normal, touch - no resistance, and Bull enters to find the unusual sight of Ellana and eggs.

Ellana and eggs in the morning is not unusual; Ellana's self-imposed quest for the perfect egg sandwich is a sort of serious and solemn dedication Ellana has taken for herself that has become part of her in his mind, just like how Ellana and Skyhold are part of each other in his mind, too.

What is unusual is that Ellana is not sitting somewhere eating the eggs, the aforementioned eggs are not cooked, and there is no breakfast ready.

Bull does not particularly care about the latter part, it’s the first two that trip him up.

Also, the eggs are pure black and they sit on the large marble island in the middle of the kitchen - the light of the sun from the window behind Ellana glancing off of them. They look like stones. Polished stones - in a neat little basket.

“You forgot to buy eggs,” Ellana says, arms crossed as she stares at the eggs, “I told you to buy eggs.”

“And I told you that I was too busy for errands,” Bull reminds her gently, “You were here all day, you could have gotten the eggs yourself.”

Ellana narrows her eyes, not looking at him, “It isn’t that simple. I can’t just _leave_ Skyhold.”

Bull tiredly puts this to the side. It is an argument they’ve had before. Ellana leaves Skyhold all the time. He does not understand her sudden emphasis on her being unable to leave when the first place he ever saw her was a dive bar in the middle of town.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Bull says.

“Since you did not buy the eggs,” Ellana says, “Skyhold has provided eggs for me.”

Ellana drums her fingers against her arm, “Skyhold likes it when I am pleased. Eggs please me. You not buying eggs displeased me. Thus - Skyhold has procured eggs.”

“Okay," Bull says, slowly.

Ellana slowly reaches out and picks up one of the eggs. She stares at it, long and hard, face unreadable before she cracks it against a glass bowl.

Whatever is -

Whatever comes out of that egg is not -

What should be the egg whites is pure black. Like ink.

And what should be the yolk is green. A vivid, pure, green.

And in that center of the green is a single perfect circle of black.

 _It’s an eye_.

For a minute Bull thinks that this is just another one of Skyhold’s many tricks, one of the many ways it misreads things and can only answer in the ways it knows how. Like sealing rooms closed with living vines and the buzzing of bees when it gets too cold, making everything swelteringly hot and claustrophobic, or when Skyhold suddenly appears to have a view of the ocean when it feels like it’s too quiet - filling the air with the sound of waves crashing on steep rocky cliffs.

Ellana stares into the eye. The eye stares back. Bull can feel a strange sort of - humming that could be vaguely words, a rhythmic chanting almost, start to crawl up the back of his neck.

This, apparently, seems to be beyond even Ellana and her experience with Skyhold, and she takes the bowl, walks to the kitchen window, opens it and dispenses of the egg's contents by pouring it out and onto the shrubbery.

As it disappears, Bull swears he sees the liquid black forming hands and fingers to crawl away.

Ellana turns her gaze back to him. Bull feels his shoulders slump - part relief that whatever that was is gone, and also a little bit of sheepishness.

“I’ll get the eggs,” He says, turning and - well, not quite _running_ as Ellana gets to work cracking open the rest of the eggs in the basket to release them into Skyhold’s wild.

-

She had always known Solas would die. She met him on his literal deathbed.

Ellana had known from the very start that he would die, and he would die soon.

But the day after Solas dies, Ellana still finds herself crying. Huge body shaking sobs that try her throat and pain her eyes and leave her weak and trembling on the floor like a baby.

The day that Solas died was a blur. A surreal dream to her. Her mind resists examining this dream too closely. The grief, perhaps, is too fresh. Ellana shies away from it.

She had known he was dying.

And she had known that he was very close -

For the past few days he had been feverish, mercurial - his attitudes would swing with his mind. He would forget who she was, who _he_ was. He would say strange things, odd things, disturbing things that rattled her more than anything Cole had ever said to her.

Cole was strangely absent.

The days before his passing were a blur - not the surreal blur his death was - but the blur of tiredness and work that bled into more work and starling awake whenever she heard his fevered moans or his struggle with his own weight, his own breath.

Ellana does not think she has ever cared for anything - tried so hard - to keep anything alive in her life. She does not know if she will ever have it in her again. To try so hard knowing it’s a downhill fight.

She had scraped the palm of her left hand on some loose stone - she had paused a moment to curse, she remembers. But she rushed to him when he heard him moaning, crying almost.

He was like a child at times, then. In those last few days. She would run to him and shush him and hold him and stroke his head and his hands until the crying would stop, until he was asleep or too weak for crying.

He saw her hand and said that he was so very sorry. She told him that it wasn’t his fault. She remembers that he had just _looked_ at her. And for a moment he was her Solas again. The one she met - looking unjustly regal and proud in his dilapidated home, like a rusted king on a throne that had long lost its gilding.

And he stroked a circle around the scratch on her hand and whispered, “Blame it on me. I can take it. When the time comes, I want you to blame it on me.”

Ellana wonders if he means this - her grief. She wonder if he means the sudden collapse of something inside of herself. So long wandering and being temporary, of always being so easily uprooted and so untouched - so long without roots or anything to call hers -

And now this.

You are responsible for the things you tame.

The grief is overwhelming. She knows that there are things she must do. She must contact a lawyer, or someone, for the reading of the last will. She has to arrange a funeral service. She has to get ready to find someplace new to be, to live, to exist. She has to get ready to let this place go - she has to find -

She had known Skyhold was special. She had known that it was - _different_. But if pressed Ellana could never tell you why, exactly. Or what. All she had known was that this place was special - sacred in a way the rest of the world had lost.

Ellana opens her eyes when she feels something familiar and long wanted.

She turns her head towards her hand, the scratch she had left unattended, and sees a curl of vines and roots and leaves pushing through and between the cracked stone of the floor. It cures and weaves itself together into the shape of a very malformed hand, its finger curling through hers, and then stroking against her palm - tugging at the skin of the cut.

A deep humming in the stone.

“I am sorry,” Solas’ voice whispers from nowhere. Everywhere. Outside the window - a flurry of wings? Batshaped, but not attached to bats - from the ceiling, a flicker of firelight as if from the unlit hearth -, from the cabinets - a shadowy figure walks in the glass -, from right in her ear - a warm breath. “ _I am sorry_.”

Ellana had known Skyhold was magic.

The green hand grows an arm, an elbow, pushing itself up and out of the earth as it looms and gently lowers itself onto her, more arms - more than two, more than three, more than four - and a bloom of flowers that pushes itself into her nose, her ears, her eyes, her mouth.

The flapping of wings. Not feathers. Not a bird.

_It chose you._


	92. Chapter 92

“It’s not Skyhold’s fault exactly,” Cole murmurs. She does not know how she did not see it before - or maybe she did see it and was quick to ignore it, to push it away and to explain it with feeble and paper words - but she can see through him. If she looks at him too closely she can see through his skin. Nerves. Muscles. Blood and arteries. Bones. Other soft tissue. All of them flickering and undulating.

Cole must focus to keep them all together in the right order.

“Skyhold doesn’t mean to hold you here, or to block your sight or your hearing or your touch,” Cole says, as Lavellan despondently picks up the antique phone and drops it back into its cradle. Again, and again, and again. It makes a click-ring every time she picks it up and drops it.

The dial tone is missing. There’s sound on the other end, but she doesn’t know what it is.

The rustle of leaves, the crying of birds, a soft and intimate breathing.

The susurration of three words, _stay with me_.

She lets the phone drop, the motion is petty and repetitive and soothing.

“It doesn’t know how to go outside, either. And it is scared, it doesn’t understand anymore. It used to, but the world forgot and now it is trapped.”

“I’m trapped,” Lavellan says, “Skyhold is everywhere. Skyhold is everything. You can’t be trapped if there is nowhere to be trapped. _I_ am trapped.”

“It used to know how to connect with other places,” Cole says, slowly reaching out and stopping her from picking the phone up.

Lavellan ignores him, and lifts her hand and the phone _through_ him. Cole takes his hand back, hunching his shoulders.

Falling in love with a place has made her cruel and petty.

And all of that cruelty and pettiness drives itself out of her towards places it has no right going.

Cole for understanding and for not being like her, Cole for being something _other_ , Cole for being so obviously _other_ and knowing and used to everything when she was just willfully ignorant and blind.

Solas for having the nerve to die without telling her anything true and real, Solas for his early apologies without explanations. Solas for failing to leave her altogether and hovering as an apologetic specter - now capable and willing, but too late to actually make a difference.

The Inquisition for bursting into her life, Solas’ life, Skyhold’s life, and helping this place feel more like home than anything Lavellan is willing to acknowledge. The Inquisition for offering laughter and connection and the false illusion of community in this place and then taking it away. Leaving.

The Iron Bull for not being here when she needed him. The Iron Bull for leaving her alone to face Solas’ death. The Iron Bull for not coming back. The Iron Bull for making her laugh. The Iron Bull for making her feel whimsical and young. The Iron Bull for temporarily relieving something in her she didn’t know needed relieving.

Skyhold for not being able to speak plainly. Skyhold for being afraid. Skyhold for being magical and powerful.

Solas, again, for making Skyhold into something it should not be and never asked to be.

Skyhold for doing the same to her.

Solas, again, for both.

“It used to be able to connect to other places,” Cole says softly, “They all used to have the same language. But something happened and the other places slowly forgot and lost it. Skyhold doesn’t know how to talk to anything anymore. Everything else forgot how to talk.”

“Skyhold can speak perfectly well,” Lavellan says, abandoning the phone and the pulsating ache in her left arm. She’s been ignoring how it’s slowly growing deeper, pushing higher, fighting against gravity to reach her elbow. She can only see it sometimes - whatever it was that burrowed into her. But she feels it always. “I just don’t like what it’s telling me.”

Cole shuffles after her as she walks through hallways that are hers, without being _hers_.

Solas had left the entire property to her.

What else could he do?

Skyhold wanted no other.

Lavellan walks until she’s at the very edge of the property line and her left arm is throbbing, the limb locked up from elbow down.

The murmuring grows louder, and she can hear the forest _groaning_.

That soft, intimate whisper - _stay with me_.

Lavellan wrenches her feet from the ground - stinging pain like electricity and someone snapping a nail off - and turns back to walk towards Skyhold.

She ignores the feeling of blood that is not hers, pooling in her footprints.

-

“I can see the attraction,” Solas says to her and Lavellan ignores him in favor of checking the strap for his catheter. His finger prods her shoulder.

“What?”

“He’s well built,” Solas says, “He’s not unhandsome.”

“Who are we talking about?”

Solas raises a single eyebrow at her and Lavellan wrinkles her nose.

“Gross.”

“I’m old, dying, and senile, not ignorant of the ways of the world. He’s attractive. He thinks you’re interesting.”

“We aren't having this conversation. I want you to know we aren’t having this conversation,” Lavellan says, “This is so weird.”

“You’re currently checking to see if I haven’t removed my own catheter in a fit of semi-lucidity, Lavellan,” Solas says, “There are weirder things.”

Lavellan groans, “Okay, sure, yeah, he’s handsome and good looking. What’s your point? Does there have to be a point to this? It’s just like - an aesthetic note. Like how you look at a painting and notice that it’s nice, or you see a nice arrangement of flowers and think it’s pleasing. Which reminds me that I’ve been finding these weird flowers all around Skyhold. I don’t know what they are. They feel weird.”

“I’ll look at them,” Solas says. “Bring me one.”

“Alright, but if I don’t know what they are why would you? You haven’t left this castle in like - decades.”

“I’m not sure exactly how old you think I am, Lavellan, but I assure you that it has not been decades since I left this castle.”

“Centuries?”

Solas looks her dead in the eye, “You are not cute.”

“No, but you like me anyway,” Lavellan replies, “I’ll go get a cutting of the plant. Stop talking to me about boys.”

“Do you want me to talk about Skinner, instead? She seems a little too curt for you, frankly. You’d bruise each other’s feelings too easily.”

“ _I’m leaving_ , I am leaving you to pee on yourself and get bed sores. God, I hate it when you’re chatty.”


	93. Chapter 93

“This is bad,” Sera says, her daemon’s large ears flatten against his skull. Eli winds circles through her legs, nervous energy with nowhere to go.

“Good news is I’m not dead,” Lavellan says, looking up at Sera, snow and ice flecked on her eyelashes.

“Bad news is you fell thirty feet straight down into a fucking crack in a mountain,” Sera says. “Andraste’s tit, how are you alive?”

Sera’s eyes narrow against the bright flicker of the Anchor.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Just because you’ve had worse doesn’t mean you automatically get - I dunno - _immunity_ to everything that isn’t the _worse_ ,” Eli groans. “How do we get her out?”

“Repeat it again,” Sera calls down, shivering as she crouches and shoves Eli out of her way to look into the crack. “What’s broken?”

“Ankle,” Lavellan answers, “Too many bones - I don’t want to mess with it. I’m not very good at healing fractures and such. I have a cut on my head, some other scrapes - my wrist is strange. Not broken, just strange.”

Lavellan cannot possibly climb back up. For that matter, Sera can’t go _down_.

Also there’s no rope.

“I was wrong, this isn’t bad.” Sera hits her head against the heel of her palm, licking her dry lips, “This is fucking _awful_.”

“Some optimism, Sera,” Lavellan calls out, “I’m not dead! I can talk! All my limbs are attached!”

“Some practicality you twat,” Sera calls back, “You’re not dead _yet_. You have to get up here and see a healer somehow. Shit. I can’t just leave you, when if we never find you? Is your daemon okay?”

“Probably.”

“What do you mean _probably_?”

“I haven’t talked to him.”

“Are you _going_ to talk to him?”

“Eventually, I guess,” Lavellan takes in a breath and then starts to laugh.

“She must have cracked her skull,” Eli says to Sera, eyes wide, “She’s gone off it entirely.”

“Sera, what’s that song? The one you all were singing before we found Skyhold? After Haven?”

“I’m not singing for you now,” Sera says, rocking back on her heels and trying to think. She’s got some potions that would keep Lavellan warm for a while but if snowfall continues the crack would be covered again and Sera might not be able to bring help back. Think, Sera, _think_.

“No, I mean - _look to the sky?_ ”

“What about it?”

“I mean, _look to the sky!_ ”

Sera looks up and blinks, squinting.

“What the - “

“I think,” Lavellan says, “Help is on its way already.”

A dark shape - some kind of bird - starts to descend, getting bigger and bigger and impossibly _bigger_ the closer it gets.

“Andraste’s other frozen tit,” Eli says when Kata-kost lands. Sera’s never actually seen Bull’s daemon up close.

The eagle looks at Eli, unimpressed before shuffling towards the ledge to peer down into it.

“Hello, Kata-kost,” Lavellan calls out, “What brings you to this side of the mountain?”

“You,” Kata-kost says, dryly, “I had a feeling that you would get yourself into trouble, so I went after you. Tell me, how did you manage to fall into this hole in the world?”

“Luck,” Lavellan says at the same time Sera and Eli say, “She’s fucking _cursed_.”

Kata-kost tilts her head this way and that, “I believe in luck more than curses, but in this situation luck is not particularly plausible. You are a very dangerous ward, Inquisitor Lavellan. Do you intend to work me and mine to the grave?”

“I like to keep my friends very busy,” Lavellan says, “Idle hands and such.”

-

“I,” Mahanon whispers, “Cannot leave you alone for a moment.”

Ellana sits with her back against the wood of the hut. It has been a very long time since the two of them were this close.

“How were the Anderfels?” Lavellan asks.

“I saw the blast from the Anderfels and immediately knew you were causing a riot,” Mahanon replies instantly. Neither of them mention the blur of pain that happened when they were separated through the Fade.

The distance Mahanon and Lavellan physically keep is nothing compared to the separation of _being in two different dimensions_.

“Tell me, did they hurt you?”

“I absolutely refuse to allow you to go in there and start murdering people,” Ellana says. She means it to be light hearted - but Mahanon’s intense silence puts a slight damper on it. “They had every reason to believe my guilt, vhenan. What else would they think?”

Mahanon hisses and Ellana is very tempted to stand, to look out the window, to reach and touch and comfort her daemon. It has been so very long.

“I am no longer in chains,” She says instead, quietly and as soothingly as possible. “I am no longer bound. I am no longer sitting at Death’s gate. Peace.”

“No, now you sit in Death’s chambers waiting for Death to take you,” Mahanon snaps lowly, “Do you know exactly how many Templars there are here? You kill us both over and over, you insensitive creature. Tell me everything.”

So she does.

She tells him about Solas who healed her hand, she tells him about Cassandra who is earnest, and she tells him about Cullen who is struggling, she tells him about Sera who is a flint that makes her own sparks, and she tells him about Varric who is tired, and she tells him about Vivienne who is golden, and Blackwall who is stone, and the Iron Bull who is thunder.

She tells him about the rifts and the mark on her hand that she knows he must feel within himself.

When she is done telling him, he sighs, softly.

“And what do they know of you?”

“Nothing of my soul and its substance,” She says, “You, I keep just for me.”

Mahanon laughs, softly.

And then Mahanon tells her about the rifts _he_ has seen on his slow way here. He tells her about the demons and the Templars and the Mages. He tells her about the unusual movements he has seen and flagged.

“I go tonight,” Mahanon tells her, “I found strange things that I do not want to leave alone. There is a deeper puzzle here, some greater shroud of mystery.”

“I believe you,” Ellana says, slowly inching towards the window and peering over it. Mahanon slowly raises his head to look at her.

She waits.

Mahanon touches his nose to her forehead, a warm star blooming at the touch.

“Be safe,” He asks her.

“Come back to me,” She returns.


	94. Chapter 94

“Listen, I want you two to take this,” Maxwell places a thick packet of paper into Ellana’s hand, holding onto her wrist until she tentatively puts her other hand on top of it, he nods. “I want you two to take this and _go_. Do you understand? I’m not going to be here any longer. I can’t protect you two anymore. You two need to take this - it’s paperwork and money, with this you can go back to your clan. Consider all debts paid. Or you could go travel the world. Whatever you want. But you have to take this and go now.”

Ellana and Mahanon look at each other, baffled.

“Why?” Ellana asks. “Maxwell, we don’t want your money or these papers.”

“We owe you a life debt,” Mahanon says, hand making a cutting motion to emphasize the words, “I don’t understand how _you_ fail to understand this. We don’t go until we’ve saved your life.”

“Well, Mahanon doesn’t go until he saves your life. I’m just here because I can’t leave my fair brother alone. He’d get terribly lonely,” Ellana says, trying to push the packet back at Maxwell. “Honestly, Maxwell. Take your money and your papers. We’re staying here with you.”

“I’m not _going_ to be here for much longer,” Maxwell says. “Which is why you two have to leave.”

Ellana and Mahanon exchange another set of looks, this time narrow eyed and suspicious.

“Maxwell,” Ellana says slowly turning her gaze back to him, “What are you planning?”

“Plan seems like an overly generous word,” Mahanon mumbles.

“I’m going to do something stupid,” Maxwell says.

“At least he’s honest,” Mahanon sighs.

“I’m going to break my cousin out of the Ostwick Circle,” Maxwell whispers.

The two elves turn to each other again. Mahanon gestures with a sharp flick of his wrist outwards at Maxwell. Ellana waves her hand in front of her, eyebrows drawn up.

“For once he’s understating himself,” Ellana says, “You should give him credit.”

“For defying my expectations for how much of a danger-seeking fool he is?” Mahanon replies to her before glaring at Maxwell, “We can’t leave you to breaking into the Ostwick Circle on your own. Are you daft? Don’t answer that. It’s rhetorical.”

“Maxwell, this is exactly the reason why we should stay,” Ellana says, rolling her eyes, “You can’t just go about breaking mages out of Circles. If you could do you think there’d be any Dalish elves - or elves in general - in Circles at all? Creators, Maxwell. Of course we’re staying to help you with that. That’s generally what we’re around to _do_.”

-

“You didn't tell her,” The sharp one is hissing at - at the man who is her cousin. Maxwell’s grown up and out, but Evelyn will never mistake the look of chagrined delight on his face - the dip between his eyebrows and the rueful tilt to his mouth, and the slight turn of his eyes.

Evelyn’s heart pounds in her chest. She’d been woken up in the middle of the night by two glowing eyes, a cloth over her mouth, low hissing voices, and then a very sharp hit to the temple.

Her head is no longer hurting, and that’s mostly due to the woman standing next to her, who’s been holding a hand bathed in healing light next to her head the entire time they’ve been walking through the woods.

“Tell me what?”

“That we were going to break you out of the Circle, of course,” The woman next to her says, smiling beatifically.

“Well I didn’t know _you_ two were going to be helping me until the last minute and I had already made plans,” Maxwell protests.

“You were going to break me out of the Circle?” Evelyn turns to Maxwell who holds up his hands. “Are you _insane_?”

“I told you I was planning something stupid!”

“ _This is beyond stupid, this is suicidal, this is moronic, this is insane, this is -_ “

“A successful prison break that will quickly become unsuccessful if you two don’t _lower your voices_ ,” The sharp one hisses, “I can’t believe that your cousin is louder than you.”

Evelyn feels herself flush.

“Who are they?”

“They’re the Lavellans,” Maxwell says. Evelyn blinks, turning to examine the two elves who’ve moved to stand side by side. The sharp one, pale hair and a scowling face, and the smiling one, dark hair and a velvety sort of - sort of atmosphere to her.

Evelyn turns back to Maxwell, pointing at them, “I thought you made them up.”

Maxwell looks hurt.

“Why you think that? _Did you think I’d been lying to you in all my letters_? Evelyn!”

“I’m sorry, Maxwell, but your telling me that you’d acquired two Dalish elves in your service because you saved their lives and the lives of their entire clan by smuggling them out of Ostwick and into the relatively safer lands of the North Eastern Marches single handedly without getting caught seemed a little suspect,” Evelyn throws her hands up, “Honestly, Max.”

“I like her,” The sharp one murmurs.

“Me too, can we transfer our life debt to her?”

“Traitors!” Maxwell says, “All of you! I have only done the morally correct and just thing to do to each of you and you turn on me!”

“Listen, Max, I don’t mind not being killed because I was falsely accused of blood magic,” Evelyn says, “Really. I’m grateful. But my heart is actually hurting in my chest a little because you _broke me out of the Circle_. You’re going to get excommunicated for this. Or worse.”

“Speaking of your heart,” The woman says, reaching into the collar of her shirt and pulling something on a chord out - “No escape would be complete without erasing your tracks.”

“My phylactery!” Evelyn gapes. Even Maxwell seems stunned.

“You forgot this part of your plan,” The male elf drawls, “Shitty planning.”

“I was planning on faking a ritual suicide, or a summoning gone wrong, actually,” Maxwell says. “But this works too. How did you - ?”

“What? Like it was hard?” The woman grins.

Maxwell laughs, rushing forward and picking her up, spinning her around, “Ellana, I love you, I love you, I love you! You brilliant creature!”

-

“Are those your - um,” Edric stares at the two elves who’d been silently following after the Trevelyans the better part of the morning and afternoon as the two toured the Cadash set-up. “Aides?”

The male elf scowls deeply and the female elf smiles.

It’s not a particularly - uh. Good smile.

In fact, the longer she smiles the more teeth seem to show. A truly unreasonable and horrifying amount of teeth. And the whiter they get. The longer. The sharper.

Edric turns away and Maxwell Trevelyan nods, leaning in to whisper -

“Best not to look too long at that one. She’s done some things.”

The woman laughs.

“They’re our friends,” Evelyn Trevelyan says, frowning at a transport crate of lyrium set for Kirkwall. “Not our aides. They’re just - quiet.”

“I thought they were your body guards,” Malika says. Edric groans. This kid will never stay quiet. Not even her mother can get her to keep it shut. This kid will someday be in a life or death situation and she’ll open her mouth and stick her foot in it. “Or slaves. I don’t know. Humans are weird.”

The smiling one’s smile actually seems to _glitter_. The scowling one’s eyes are pure black.

“ _Malika_ ,” Edric hisses.

“I’m calling it like I see it,” Malika says sullenly. “And I mean - they’re Trevelyans. Noble sort. It wouldn’t be too out of the normal, would it?”

“Slavery is illegal,” Maxwell says.

“So’s trading lyrium through non-Chantry channels,” Malika fires back. “Why do you even need lyrium anyway?”

“Malika, please don't question our possible source of revenue,” Edric groans.

“It’s for some templars,” Evelyn says.

Malika frowns. “Giving lyrium to templars is a lot like creating an imbalanced power relationship to fuel a deeply dependent personal military force that functions outside the rule of law.”

The Trevelyans and their - uh _friends_ \- all look at one another.

The scowling one’s evens out into a disturbing blankness. The smiling one’s smile turns dazzling.

Maxwell _beams_.

Evelyn’s eyes glitter.

“I like her,” Maxwell says, “Do you think you’d ever consider traveling when you get older? Perhaps, say, an apprenticeship or some sort of thing like that?”

“Maxwell, you are not absconding with a child,” Evelyn says, but she’s turned considering eyes on Malika as well.

“Well you’re certainly not absconding with her without _me_ , I’m her legal guardian when her mother isn’t around,” Edric says, “Please don’t talk about kidnapping my niece right in front of me.”

“He looks sturdy and stable, if it’s a package deal I’d say take it,” The male elf speaks for the first time, looking straight at Edric with those dark eyes, arms folded. “He looks like he can pull his weight.”

“High words of approval from Mahanon,” Maxwell claps Edric on the shoulder, “That’s an engraved invitation. Say, what say you about become our business partners instead of our supply source?”

-

“We’re going to need more muscle if we’re going to keep up this thing,” Mahanon says as he shoves Edric onto a cot for Ellana and Evelyn to start work on healing.

“Good thing I’ve hired some muscle,” Maxwell says.

Everyone looks at him.

“As if no one didn’t see this coming,” Maxwell frowns, “If you all thought the six of us could handle running an underground lyrium ring to assist templars with withdrawal and mages who need to make a living outside of the Circle all while remaining _unseen_ and _undetected_ I’m going to have to reconsider why I’m always thought to be the dull one among us.”

“You aren’t dull, Maxwell,” Malika says, helping Evelyn take of Edric’s boots as Ellana begins to mix poultices, “You’re just easily excitable and distracted.”

“Thank you ever so kindly, Malika,” Maxwell says wryly, “Putting that aside, I’ve gone and done the liberty of finding us some new muscle.”

“Can they be trusted?”

“We’re about to find out because they’ll be here tomorrow,” Maxwell claps his hands.

Everyone bursts out - _tomorrow?_

 _“Maxwell_ ,” Evelyn stands up, “We don’t even have the funds - “

“We do have the funds because I’ve been budgeting very carefully,” Maxwell says.

“How do we even know if they can be trusted? You gave them our _location_?” Mahanon hisses.

“False, I gave the a location for one of our supposed drop-zones and they are to meet with some of our,” Maxwell lifts his fingers to air quote, “ _Assistants_. As far as the Valo-Kas are concerned, they’re meeting with middle men at an easily abandoned drop-site.”

“Well that answers the question of how good they are. How did you snag the Valo-Kas?” Malika asks.

“The Valo-kas are Tal-Vashoth mercs,” Edric supplies to the other three in the room who don’t know, “They’re tough, they’re dirty, but they’ll stick to their word unless you fuck’m over. But normally there’s something of a line to get to them. They’re impressive looking on and off paper. People don’t want to fuck with former Qun.”

“I have an in,” Maxwell says.

Ellana makes a soft, gasping, _oh_.

All heads swing to her.

Ellana beams, “You found Herah!”

Maxwell flashes her a thumbs up.

Mahanon’s eyebrows raise, “Herah?”

“You remember? When we were still teenagers and our clan was spending a summer up by Wycome?” Ellana says, clasping her hands together by her face, “There was this lovely lady with the most beautiful hair. You kept getting mad at me because I’d skip chores to watch her. And I almost got caught by her one time?”

Mahanon’s eyebrows raise even further, “ _That’s_ Herah? How did you even know her name?”

“I snuck out of camp to try and find her again. Her hair was just so _beautiful_ and _shining_.” Ellana sighs, “Oh, right, and then she did find me and we talked a bit. I was quite shy and she was rather nervous.”

Mahanon’s eyes widen, “You _talked to her_?”

“Well I was very curious at the time, Mahanon, you ought not to be so cross looking,” Ellana huffs, “Besides, all the other da’len were just as curious as I was! And she didn’t turn me in or anything.”

“Back to the point,” Maxwell claps his hands, “Ideally if we get this contract signed we’ll be moving better and faster with their help. We can’t risk getting any more shipments caught. There are suffering men and women who need our help to _gradually_ wean them off of lyrium and there are men and women who need lyrium for their trade to feed their families.”


	95. Chapter 95

“Someday a man is going to be very lucky to give her children,” Mahanon says, looking at Maxwell, “Write that down somewhere. She’s going to have three by the same man and they will each be sequentially more powerful than the next.”

Ellana pauses in bringing a sunflower seed to her mouth and stares into the middle distance, “Golden hair, a sturdy build, and a good connection to the ground.”

“What are you, a seer?” Edric asks, “Ugh. I just shivered. My hair is standing on end.”

Ellana laughs and pops the seed into her mouth.

“Are you that man?” Herah asks. “Maybe consult my little brother first?”

Mahanon blinks and actually seems to contemplate this, “I would be most fortunate if I were so inclined. But I am not inclined. And thus I miss out on that fortune. Kaaras and I will simply have to remain childless.”

Mahanon snatches a walnut from his sister just as she cracks it open. She scowls at him.

“Go on with your declaration, Evelyn,” Malika says, “I don't know what it means, but it sounds really impressive.”

“Am I supposed to know what it means?” Kaaras asks, looking between Evelyn and the rest of them, “Evelyn, am I supposed to know what what you just said means?”

“The Inquisition was the precursor to the Seekers of the Truth and the Templar order,” Evelyn says.

“Who would even know history going back that far?” Edric marvels.

“Evelyn would,” Maxwell says. “Alright, if we’re going to start a new Inquisition I’m going to need to slash everyone’s budgets.”

Herah and Malika both groan. Edric hits the heel of his palm against his forehead.

“What’s a budget?” Ellana asks.

Maxwell turns and gives them a soft and fond look, “Bless their hearts. They think I let them eat their weight in seed and dried berries out of the goodness of my character and soul.”

Both Lavellans look stunned at this, “You _don’t_?”

(“Are you certain that they aren’t semi-domseticated?” Herah asks as Mahanon and Ellana both tug at the back of Maxwell’s coat, whining and making low sounds of urgency.

“If I gave them their money they’d spend all of it on sugar cubes or glass,” Maxwell says, “Alternatively they’d throw it at people from dangerous heights to see how much damage they could do. Honestly, this is the best solution for all involved.”

“Mint leaves!” Ellana whines. “In ice water!”

“ _Honey comb_ ,” Mahanon murmurs sullenly as Maxwell counts coins out.

“Alright, alright, here,” Maxwell gives them each some coins, “You should get two of the copper back, Ellana. And Mahanon they may try to charge you extra but this should be more than enough.”)

“Wait, if you don’t know what a budget is, how have you been doing anything?” Kaaras asks.

“How do you mean?”

“Bribing people - procuring tools and such,” Kaaras asks.

The elves blink at him and then smile, softly, sanguinely, dangerously.

“Coin runs out and changes hands,” Ellana says.

“ _Blood remains_ ,” Mahanon finishes ominously.

Everyone collectively shivers before choosing to focus on Evelyn for their own peace of mind.

“I’m starting the Inquistion,” Evelyn says, “Because all of Thedas has gone insane. Families are being broken up, people are being hurt and killed, and everyone with the power to do something _aren’t_.”

Malika claps her hands enthusiastically, “I love it when she gets going on these things, I really do.”

“We have money. We have power.”

“ _Some_ money,” Maxwell stresses as he pulls out the book he uses for their accounts.

“ _Some_ power,” Edric says, looking like he’s going through a mental flip book of contracts and routes that are going to be, undoubtedly, tangled up with Evelyn’s new proclamation.

“We’re going to do something. There are templars and mages who get along, there are mages who need safe spaces and don’t have them, there are templars who don’t want to fight. There are displaced families and farmers. There are roads that have been made unsafe, homes that have been abandoned, _lives that have been put on hold_ ,” Evelyn pounds a fist down hard on the table.

Ellana and Mahanon make loud noises of displeasure as the motion almost upsets their pile of nuts and seeds.

“ _And I’m going to do something about it_ ,” Evelyn declares. “Under the first Inquisition everyone was brought together - by force. If no one is going to cooperate and deal with matters on their own, _I’m going to do it myself_.”

“We’re an underground smuggling ring that works based on high anonymity, lies, bluffs, and many pulled strings - pulled so taught that if they snapped they’d take out an eye,” Edric says, “Our finances and routes are already stretched tight with the Mage-Templar war screwing up our routes and our safe zones. Evelyn, please tell me you have a plan.”

“My plan is that I’m going to offer help and assistance to everyone who needs it and I’m going to stand between them and whoever is using the chaos as an opportunity to hurt others,” Evelyn says, “I’m working on the semantics but I am _sick and tired and angry_ of all the fear.”

Evelyn’s eyes narrow, “Magic is meant to serve man. Templars are meant to protect mages from what happens when we forget that. The Chantry is supposed to help the poor and serve as a bastion against corruption and abuse.”

“You lived in the Circle for almost twenty years, fair cousin, I think you know by now that’s all wrong,” Maxwell muses.

“Yes,” Evelyn exhales, “Of course I’ve known. I’d hoped - but I had known. But now it’s just - it’s all out of control. And no one’s doing anything. How can no one do anything?”

“It’s the easy thing,” Kaaras says softly, “To do nothing is easy.”

“Well, if we were going to do things the easy way I don’t think any of us would be alive right now,” Edric points out.

“Maxwell would have let us die,” Ellana points out, sounding oddly cheerful about the fact. It might be because she’d just finished cracking open a pistachio nut.

“I’d be a Tamassaran in the Qun,” Herah says, “And Kaaras would be a Saarebas.”

“My entire family would probably be beggars in Orzammar,” Malika says, “Right?”

“Or dead, probably dead,” Edric confirms.

“I don’t think I would have even made it to Saarebas,” Kaaras says, “I don't think my parents would have had me.”

“I’d be miserable and rich, or assassinated,” Maxwell throws in. “This is incredibly depressing. Can we please go back to how we are to implement my strong willed cousin’s most ambitious idea?”


	96. Chapter 96

Ellana did not see the knife in time.

It killed her fast.

Bull is certain of that much.

It killed her fast. It killed Solas faster.

There was nothing left to bury. And there was nothing left to charge or indite. Ellana and Solas combined made sure of that.

Ellana did not see the knife in time.

When she went to Solas with open arms, ready to embrace him and welcome him back - or maybe to cry and hold him one last time - Solas responded with a knife to her heart. And Ellana’s body - or maybe Ellana’s heart, in a final and incredibly delayed response to incoming pain - reacted by erasing everything in a three league radius. Down and up, included.

It looks like Blighted land, without the feeling of unease. The ground was glass, molten. And the air tasted like the implosion of heat.

Bull could still feel the heat through his boots when he got there. Not the first, not the last.

Inquisition soldiers, Orleisan troops, Ferelden warriors - all of them looked for clues, hoping to outdo the other and slam down their own ruling.

There wasn’t anything to find.

Or perhaps, Bull thinks in hindsight, _she did_.

Maybe Ellana saw the knife coming before any of them did.

Maybe she’s the one who put it there.

Maybe, when Ellana smiled at him and didn’t say anything, just as they went off into that last battle it meant something. Maybe he didn’t see it then because he had gotten complacent. Maybe Ellana had outgrown him, and learned to hide better than he could seek out. Maybe Ellana had known this was coming since that morning all those years ago when she first woke up - lucid - after losing her arm.

Perhaps this is what she intended when she sat up and told him, _It is not yet over, not until I say it is. And I have not yet said that it is over_.

And what, Bull thinks, about the rest of them?

Ellana went forward with open arm and open stump, with an open heart and an open face. She went to Solas - away from Bull and Dorian and everyone safe and proven true. And he proved them all right by stabbing her for it.

And then she proved them all wrong by destroying Solas and everything around them so completely and utterly it was as though they never existed.

“She did not want you to mourn her like this,” Cole had said at the funeral were everyone was dazed and confused and not quite certain what was happening.

She had returned from death so many times that without a body to prove it - it seemed surreal. She would walk in at any moment, they had all felt as they checked over their shoulders and double checked every window and doorway. She was still _present_.

“This was not the end she had chosen for you,” Cole had insisted to everyone who would listen.

Ellana saw the knife in time.

-

“You knew this day would come eventually,” Dorian says softly. Sometimes Ellana looks at him and for a moment she sees another face. Still his face - but younger.

Dorian, for whatever reason, in her mind is eternally frozen in that first moment for her. That moment when he was sweating, tired with magical exhaustion _and_ physical fatigue, and her hand was outstretched. Not for his - but for the Rift he had been holding off. It is that moment, when he turns to her with awe and surprise and relief in his eyes and sweat shining on his skin and heat in his breath that has lingered with her after all these years.

His hair is white and his skin is not as deep and vibrant and _full_ as it once was.

They are all, she thinks, a little washed out.

“I thought I had more time,” Ellana replies, fingers loosely rolling the tooth between them. It has been worn down with so much time, so much touch. Perhaps if she warms it with her fingers enough, she can pretend she took it right off of his sleeping chest.

She buried her half with him, instead. The groves of his feel unfamiliar under her fingertips.

She would rather the familiar of his skin over this.

“We always think so,” Dorian replies.

There are fewer of them, now.

Ellana marvels at this.

They were all so young once.

Every funeral, every wake - there are fewer and fewer of them.

And suddenly Ellana is afraid that she will be the last one. She doesn’t want to be the last one.

It is a terrible fate to wish on someone - to be the last. But she would rather, for once, it not be her who draws the unfortunate lot.

How peculiar to wish to die, Ellana thinks.

Age must do that to you.

For a brief moment she wonders if this is what Solas wanted.

There’s really no one left to tell her not to think about what Solas wanted. He never cared for what she wanted, after all.

Ellana looks down at the soil, fresh and dark and promising.

She’d saved a seed for this day, but she had hoped never to use it.

“Thank you for coming out,” Ellana says softly. They two are the only ones left at the grave, everyone else went on to the wake. It will be full of drinks and food and merriment. That is how he would have wanted it. That is how it should be.

Ellana feels like crying again.

“Of course,” Dorian draws her against him, kissing her temple, “We didn’t get along at first, and I admit it was touch and go for a while - but he’s.  He was a good friend.”

“I practically had to force you two to get along for the first year or two,” Ellana sniffs.

“To let you in on a secret, after that first year we only pretended to get along to make you feel better,” Dorian says, “And then after that it got easier to actually get along and we did eventually become sincere friends.”

“Either way it worked," Ellana squeezes the tooth in her palm. “I’ve only just buried him and I want him back terribly.”

“I’d make a joke about necromancy but honestly it would be in bad taste,” Dorian says, rubbing her arm with his warm palm.

“That’s alright, he’d appreciate it,” Ellana sniffles, “Dorian, it doesn’t get better, does it? It just keeps on going.”

“I’m afraid so,” Dorian says, “How strange. We all fought so hard to have a chance to live this long and we’ve fought off assassins and opposing factions and mercenaries and all sorts of life-threatening trouble in between, and now here we are, sad that we lived through the chances we took and won.”

“The incredible irony,” Ellana agrees.

Dorian allows her to wallow in her sadness and grief for another few minutes before he squeezes her arm meaningfully.

Ellana nods.

Dorian takes the dragon tooth necklace from her hand and slowly raises the chord of her head for her. The weight settles on her - not nearly enough.

He kisses her forehead, “Come on, love. Let’s give him the sort of send off he’d be proud to laugh at the hangovers of.”

“You know what the saddest part is?” Ellana asks as they walk away - she has to resist looking over her shoulder, digging in her heels and throwing herself on the ground to stay there with him.

“What?”

“He didn’t die fighting,” Ellana says, “He always wanted to go down swinging.”

“Ellana,” Dorian sighs gently, “He died happy. With you with him. It was more than he ever wanted. I promise you that. The Iron Bull died satisfied. You gave him more than any war or battle or skirmish or promise of order could ever have given him.”


	97. Chapter 97

“You know,” Ellana says, Kaaras glances at her before focusing back on cutting watermelon, “I’m going to try my best to raise baby to love you just as much as they love Dorian and Bull. I mean, I’m hoping you’ll let me do that. I can’t see the future or speak for it, but I hope that you’re around for a really long time and I don’t end up having to explain to Baby why you stop coming around.”

Kaaras’s grip slips a little on the knife, but luckily the blade was against the cutting board.

“What?” He breathes out, not lifting his eyes from the watery juice that glistens on the board, hands still held carefully over the next piece of fruit.

Ellana, cutting cherries in half, does not stop her work. He hears the very steady rhythm of her moving cherries to her, cutting them open, removing the pit, and cutting them into further fourths.

“I want you around,” She says, “Dorian wants you around. Bull wants you around. I’m not trying to pressure you into staying. Relationships come together, relationships fall apart. But when this baby is born, I don’t want you to think - not for a moment - that you are not part of this. You are. This baby? This baby is between the four of us. Not the three of us. I don’t want you to ever think that it’s the three of us, a family, and then you. It’s the four of us, together, a family.”

Kaara’s throat feels prickly and his breath hitches.

“Ellana,” Kaaras swallows and exhales, “I - “

Ellana stops cutting and Kaaras slowly brings his gaze up to her.

She’s looking at him, so earnest and open and  _warm_. Kaaras can see exactly why the Iron Bull fell in love with her and why she’s Dorian’s best friend.

“Thank you,” Kaaras says.

It had been worrying him, to some extent - his place, here. In this already strange house.

Ellana smiles.

“Thank  _you_ ,” She says. Kaaras doesn’t know what she’s thanking him for, but his throat is too much a tangle to ask.

-

“I can’t drive anymore,” Lavellan sounds incredibly petulant and Herah laughs, shaking her head as she jams the phone between her ear and shoulder, using her free hands to sign off on something someone passes to her on a clip board.

Should Herah be reading what was on that? Yes.

Did she?  _No_.

She’s sure that Josephine and Leliana wouldn’t have let her sign anything that wasn’t already, probably, Evelyn approved.

“Good, one less thing for me to worry about,” Herah says, “I’m going to find where you hid that Inquisition tank, Lavellan. You and your spy husband and your spy brother can’t hide it from me forever.”

“I didn’t steal it, Edric let me have it.”

“And since when was Edric in charge of our weapons?” Herah asks, raising an eyebrow at a messenger who’s been dithering just at the edge of her peripheral vision for about fifteen minutes. She waves at him to just come over and get on with it. She rolls her eyes when that sees to frighten the boy more.

Everyone says she’s more approachable than Evelyn.

They’re wrong, she’s just more approachable than Evelyn when Evelyn is pregnant.

“I can’t drive anymore and that means I can’t go anywhere,” Lavellan continues, “Herah. I’m so incredibly bored. I’ve been lying down with my eyes unfocused for three hours now.”

“Please call a doctor.”

“I can focus them any time I want to, I just don’t feel like it.”

“Lavellan why did you call me?”

“No one else picked up.”

Herah isn’t sure if she’s offended or not by this.

“Well, Maxwell did but I hung up on him because he started going on about something something taxes something sanctions,” Lavellan says, “I think he did it on purpose.”

“Probably,” Herah agrees. And then - “Lavellan?”

“Yeah?” Lavellan grunts. Herah can hear her grunting and straining, presumably to get up. “Oh god, I can’t believe I have to roll to sit up. It’s like being a squishy turtle. Gross image. Squishy turtle.”

Herah holds up one of her hands and everyone stops moving. Herah’s pretty sure everyone around her stops breathing. She’s not sure if this is because she’s Herah or if this is something they do for Evelyn, too.

“What are you doing?” Herah’s  _oh fuck_  senses are spiking. Not tingling.  _Spiking_.

“I’m going to get some peanut butter pretzels. If I’m going to languish about I want something salty and sweet,” Ellana says.

“Ellana, you aren’t supposed to drive - I don’t think your stomach is even going to fit behind the wheel.”

“I’m not going to drive, Herah, don’t be ridiculous. Bull took my car and I can’t drive his. He has the keys. Also my feet don’t reach the pedals, yet.”

“You’re  _still_  holding out on that growth spurt? Ellana, you’re thirty five.”

“Whatever,” Ellana says.

“Wait - how are you - ?”

Dread drops into her stomach and she starts rapidly signing for troops to mobilize.

Everyone remains frozen, staring at her - staring at the phone that Herah is now holding against her ear like proximity will make this situation go away.

“I’m going to walk,” Ellana says, “It’s only fifteen miles. Oop, running low on phone battery. Maxwell was going on forever earlier. I’ll talk to you later, Herah. Bye.”

Ellana hangs up.

Rylen clears his throat standing next to her.

Herah turns to look at him, “Confirm that I didn’t hallucinate that conversation.”

“You did not hallucinate that conversation,” Rylen says.

Herah turns to slowly look out at the crowd of stunned faces.

“You heard him! Lavellan is eight months pregnant and about to attempt to walk fifteen miles to get peanut butter pretzels. Why aren’t any of you  _moving to stop her_?”

The entire room scatters like cats.

Herah groans. Rylen claps her on the back.

“Remember when Evelyn got it in her head to try and fix one of the trucks the last time around?” Rylen asks. “Just think of it like that.”

“I still don’t know how she got her belly under that truck,” Herah says, “She had fucking  _twins_  in there.”

“She’s the Inquisitor of Thedas, Adaar. You think physics is going to stop her?”


	98. Chapter 98

“They will make this trial about you and the Dales,” Leliana says as Lavellan sweeps her hair back and up, bright orange ribbon held between her teeth as she arranges her hair. The orange is a loud and strong declaration of silent war.

Inquisitor Lavellan, Most Holy of the Dales, is here to stay.

“As if I care about their petty squabbles with my nation. Ferelden and Orlais have hated the Dales for years but both of them are too little, too weak, and too dependent on us for food and raw materials to do anything about it. What are they going to do? Place sanctions on us? Levy taxes? Fine. The Dales are self sustaining.”

“Orlais and Ferelden have enough power combined to possibly drag other nations into this,” Leliana says. “The Dales are self sustaining, it’s true - but if Ferelden and Orlais manage to convince more nations to join them, to  _unite_  against the Inquisition and the Dales there could be danger.”

“Our people have trust in me, in what we have done together,” Lavellan says, slowly winding the orange strip through her dark braids, pinning and fixing the mass of hair to her head with steady and self-assured hands. “If Orlais and Ferelden turn against us here and now - and worse, if they slip for even a  _moment_  show more bias against the Dales than they already have, the entire world of Thedas will know that this is entirely a political and racial move. They would lose all ground for their case.”

Lavellan gives Leliana a wan smile, “Politics, Nightingale, politics you know well.”

“Politics, yes, but there is always the smallest grain of possibility. I have to prepare us for that eventuality, no? Is that not what the Spymaster is meant for? The worst possible outcome?” Leliana replies, eyebrow raising. “Tell me, honestly - what will you do if they force the disbanding of the Inquisition?”

“And how would they do that, pray tell?”

“They could seize Skyhold, for one. It is Ferelden land. They could also bar our activities - declare us rebels against the state.”

“And lose the goodwill of the people? I think not. Besides, Briala wouldn’t do that. She isn’t seated firmly enough yet. And she never will be if she does,” Lavellan’s gaze grows distant as she examines her reflection. “If anything, there’s always Antiva and Par Vollen. Some of our best allies.”

“Antiva is forced to play arbiter, Inquisitor.”

“The Crows appreciate my patronage and we all know that the Crows are half of Antiva already. The important part, at least,” Lavellan shrugs, moving on to adding pale orange powder to her eyelids. It warms her skin beautifully while bringing together the more solid image of support for the Inquisition.

Leliana so does love working with people who know the many, many aspects of the Game and how to use them.

“Par Vollen might not be a good idea to bring in,” Leliana says.

“You assume I haven’t already? The Qun is not all horns and gray skin,” Lavellan laughs. “Leliana, do you have so little faith in me? I would think I’ve proven myself and my strong disregard for these nations and their petty politics in the face of mutual destruction time and again.”

“Again, Lavellan, it is the Spymaster’s job to look at what probably doesn’t need to be examined too closely.”

“Well, Spymaster,” Lavellan says, “In the event that everything somehow falls apart, I want you to know that you are quite welcome within the Dales as long as I have the power to welcome you.” Lavellan turns to face her fully, “I’m certain that my court will be quite happy not to have to share me with the shemlen should the Inquisition be forced to dissolve.”

-

“Am I, ah expected to bow?” Cullen asks, uncertain and unsteady.

The woman looks amused, “Bow, kneel, grovel, salute, stand at attention. I don’t have a particular preference, Commander. But it would be such a waste of time to stand on constant formality. And personally, I prefer to have my military advisors and comrades speak and address me plainly. It expedites things, I find.”

Cullen is certain that Leliana and Josephine would chide him, tell him that it’s a trap of words or some such intricacies Cullen has never had the patience or aptitude for.

“Thank you,” He says, accepting that offer for what it is and now what it probably means. “New recruits and hands come to Haven almost daily. Our numbers are growing which is fortunate, but - “

“But they’re unskilled and are worth more as physical labor than actual sword hands,” Lavellan finishes for him dryly. “I can see that.”

Cullen nods, “I’ve done my best to assign who we could afford to spare for training them, but our forces are stretched thin as it is. And there are conflicts - racial, idealogical, national, religious.”

“It must take some struggle to sort that out,” Lavellan says, eyes scanning the muddy training grounds. “Would it make the situation worse or better if I had some of mine assist in training?”

“Honestly?”

“Please.”

“I would welcome it. The armies of the Dales are one of the best, if not the best standing army that isn’t the Wardens or Qun. But I don’t know how well many of them would take to being trained by elves of the Dales.”

Lavellan nods, slowly, “That is a significant problem, yes. Tell me, what of the Iron Bull and his mercenaries? Could they be used to assist in training?”

“They’re mercenaries, which is a step up from Dalish,” Cullen says, blustering through what is probably a conversation that would cause Leliana or Josephine to have him by the throat, “I see that going over slightly better if only for the fact that they aren’t elves.”

“I’ll make inquiries, in the mean time where  _could_  I send my people to assist without causing trouble, Commander? Aside from back to the Dales.”

“I would say gathering resources but that seems to be a waste of time for the guard of the Most Holy of the Dales,” Cullen says.

“Making sure we don’t starve or fight demons with rocks and twigs is not a waste of time,” Lavellan says, flashing a quick smile at him, “You shouldn’t be so afraid of me, Commander. These are war times. And one of my titles is  _Commander_  of the Emerald Knights of the Dales. Politics has its place. But so does the blunt and frank nature of the state. I promise not to order your trial and execution for a slight to my pride just because you tell me the truth.”

“That’s reassuring,” Cullen replies. “Do you also promise not to order my immediate dismissal and  _then_  my trial and execution?”

Lavellan barks out a laugh, “And the Ambassador and Spymaster were worried about you and me talking. Keep it up, Commander Rutherford. You might win me over for your entire country if you conduct yourself so well.”


	99. Chapter 99

“I never knew she had it in her,” Sera says quietly, slowly pulling and stretching a bit of black lace between her fingers. Her voice is so rough, so scratchy. Like she’d been screaming all the things Bull wanted to scream straight at the large blown up picture of Lavellan they put up on the easel. Surrounded in flowers. Always surrounded in flowers. A never ending spring.

It’s been three weeks and people are still coming - some of them coming more than once - to leave their offerings.

Like it’s a shrine of worship, rather than a wake. The smell of flowers and incense overpowers everything else - the bodies, the tears, the food, the smoke of candles, the cold of winter.

Ellana died in the fall. An orange sunset blazed over the mountains, cut in half by a tall and powerful pillar of smoke and finality.

“I did,” Bull says quietly as he arranges platters of food on the crowded to bursting table. The food is eaten almost as fast as it comes in. Bull has no idea who or where it comes from, but it hasn’t stopped.

“She burned the entire place down,” Sera says, he can hear her eyes begin to fill with tears again. He wordlessly reaches into his breast pocket and hands her a packet of tissues. Sera snatches them from him, the plastic crinkling in her fingers as she hurriedly tears it open. “She  _burned Skyhold down_.”

The stones were black with ash. Some of them had crumbled, exploded to dust when the fire hit the gas. The electrical.

Bull privately admits that he’d almost -  _almost_  rather have let Solas win. A deep space in the atrium of his heart hangs open to a yawning and looming  _future_  that he can only describe as  _forever without her_. That same space echoes the same thing, the bitter truth - the Iron Bull would rather have the Inquisition and the rest of Thedas lost the war, let Solas have Skyhold, than lose Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan. A hard decision to make, but one that he recognizes now as the truth. He would rather have her with him, than have the rest of the world as it is now.

Whole. Relatively safe. Slightly more peaceful.

Until the next time, and the next person, and the one after that. The ones the Inquisitor of Thedas will not be around to stop. At least, not  _his_  Inquisitor. Not theirs.

“I wish Solas were still alive, I wish they found him in the wreck,” Sera says, softer than quiet.

Bull turns to look at her. The tears slide down her face in large, huge, almost cartoonish droplets but her gaze is steady and hot like the fire Lavellan set as she stares ahead of herself.

“I wish he were alive so he could see the so called peace and  _better world_  he was trying to bring around. How can it be better when she’s  _dead_?” Sera’s voice cracks down the center. “She was - she was - “

“The best of us,” A voice from Bull’s other side finishes when Sera can’t go on.

They both turn slowly.

Dorian, again.

He comes, he goes. He’s mostly silent and gaunt and drained. A colorless version of his normal self.

They are all, without her, colorless versions of themselves.

“She was the best of us,” Dorian repeats, voice flat with facts.

Because she was.

She was the best of them. All of them. She was the best parts of each of them put into one body. She was the best at what she did. She was the better person.

No wonder the streams of people keep coming to leave their flowers, their candles, their sacred fires, their boughs of elm and oak and fir, their garlands of silk, their paper charms, their wooden figures worn smooth with touch, their artifacts.

It can be very hard to believe that someone as big and overarching as Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan has finally, and truly, died.

Even if she didn’t do it while taking an entire castle and mountain up and flames with her.

Where’s the body, people think, where is it? As if she was not a flammable material, herself. As if she was immune to flame and destruction and her own personal violence.

Grief has made them all strange. It has made them into strangers from themselves. The effect o Ellana Lavellan, Bull thinks. One of many.

They can never be the people they were before she entered their lives. Especially not when she removed herself in such a brutal way.

Sera slowly leans against his arm, her face is hot, but her hands are cold, even through the fabric of his formal jacket.

They watch the slowly moving crowd of people with their offerings, shuffling and sobbing forward.

“Idolatry,” Sera whispers.

“Disbelief,” Dorian replies on Bull’s other side.

“Grief,” Bull compromises for them.

Grief does such strange things to people.

Bull wonders what it has done to him. He can’t tell.

-

“As someone who comes from a marginalized population - and I mean on all sides: queer, female, elven - I’m using my full marginalized person authority to say  _some bad shit happened here_ ,” Lavellan announces, “And I’m  _leaving_. I don’t care who spent how much money to rent this fancy resort out for us and that it was a three hour truck drive out here. I’ll walk back if I have to. I’m not staying, who’s with me?”

Cassandra, Josephine, Dorian, Sera, Bull, and Leliana raise their hands.

“Alright, cool,” Lavellan says, “The rest of you good luck I’m  _out_ , peace!”

“There’s a  _blizzard_ ,” Cullen says, gaping as seven start picking up their things.

“Listen, you know how in horror movies it’s always all white people? Usually white cis people?” Dorian says, “It’s because the rest of us have a keen edge for sensing  _bad vibes_.”

“Because if we don’t we  _die_ ,” Sera says, “Don’t forget that part.”

“So this is us, the people who are gay, elven, or not white  _fucking off_  so this horror movie can commence without us,” Dorian finishes.

“Cheers,” Leliana says, slinging one of Josephine’s bags over her shoulder.

“I’m Nevarran,” Cassandra says to the question that no one’s asked yet, “Our entire culture is based on the belief that the dead live among us. I am not risking this.”

“But if there’s anything bad here,” Bull says half-teasing, “You’re probably the only thing keeping it from happening, Cassandra -

“Allegra,” Lavellan chimes in from where she’s shoving snow out of the way of the door.

“Portia,” Dorian continues.

“Calogera,” Sera laughs.

“Filomena,” Leliana and Josephine say at once.

“Pentaghast,” Bull finishes.

Cassandra rolls her eyes and then grabs Cullen by the collar of his shirt, shoving his bag into his arms, “I’ve kept you alive this long, I am not letting you die in a cabin in the mountains because you didn’t believe it when Lavellan said she sensed something bad happened here.”

“I can’t believe everyone gets on my case for being superstitious,” Varric says, but he’s already waiting by the door.

“We get on your case for being superstitious about fake shit,” Bull says, picking Lavellan’s bag up for her and shoving her hat down onto her head, ruffling her hair. “We know you’re smart enough not to be the white guy who dies in the beginning of a horror movie.”

“For all I know, I’m the protagonist,” Varric grumbles. “I just left one horror movie to join another.”

“Sounds plausible,” Lavellan says, “Alright should we wake Blackwall up or leave him here?”

“He could be an offering to the restless spirits who haunt this frozen wasteland, let’s  _go_ ,” Sera says, pushing Lavellan out the door. “Besides they probably think he’s one of them.”


	100. Chapter 100

She is past the stage of pointless repetitiveness - the picking up and dropping of the phone, the walking to and from the edge of Skyhold’s boundaries, purposefully walking through Cole whenever he attempts to interact with her. She’s moved onto something else, now.

Vulgar destruction.

She hurls porcelain plates down onto the stone floor - she hears them shatter, she  _sees_  them shatter, she  _feels_  them shatter - but every time she reaches for another from the cabinet - there they all are. All thirty six of them, with their real gold edges and their hand painted designs. Perfect in every way.

“I,” She throws a plate down, “Never,” She throws one at the wall, “ _Agreed to this!_ ”

She screams at Skyhold, at whatever else is here.

Solas is an impassionate observer from the dining room mirror.

“Let me out!” She screams.

“You cannot go,” He says.

“Like hell I can’t,” She snaps back at him, hurling a plate against the mirror. The plate shatters. She watches it shatter. The mirror cracks.

She holds his gaze in the fractured glass until her eyes water and she blinks.

There are thirty six plates in the china cabinet and the mirror is one smooth and whole panel of glass.

She screams again, and throws another plate down.

“I never consented to this!” She snarls. “I consented to helping you die with  _dignity_. With  _grace_. Not to this.  _Never to this_.”

She grabs five plates at once and hurls them at the room at large.

“I never consented to  _being changed!_ ” She bellows at stone and glass and wood.

Because she is changing, being changed.

She’s angrier, now. Angrier than she’s ever been in her life. It’s some black and hot thing that curls around her chest - and she knows part of it is her. Oh, part of it is definitely her. But there’s something else there. Something else breathing with her lungs and heating with her blood. There is something else in her, now.

She doesn’t sleep anymore. Whenever she does she wakes up surrounded in this - this breathing cocoon of green and thick heavy bark. When she touches it, it recedes under her fingertips. Shredded. Her skin feels like it breaks and  _tears_  when she climbs her way out of it.

She’s taken to wandering at night. The halls that are ever changing, looking out windows that vary from one glass panel to the next.

Sometimes she can see her world. The real one. The one she prefers to think of as real. Whenever she does, a spark of spite springs through her. It tears everything inside of her raw and pulsating.

Hateful.

During the day she sometimes watches the teenagers and fools from town who come up to Skyhold to piss on the trees or carve bullshit into the bark and mess around with the property. Oh, how she  _hates them_.

Part of it is her - part of it her hating them because they can  _leave_. How fun it is, to mess with the old and mysterious castle in the mountains. How fun it is to make up horror stories and ghosts. How fun it is when you can leave it all behind like it’s  _play_.

But another part of her -  _oh, another part of her_.

That part loathes them on a deepr, more primal level.

A drunk teenager threw a rock at one of Skyhold’s windows. She doesn’t know when. After Solas’ death. After she - after she came back. After she became  _this_. Time no longer means anything to her.

Time is whatever she wills it to be and that, of course, renders it useless.

The window shattered.

She had - she saw it happen, even though she was not there. She was elsewhere in the castle, glaring her resentment at a view of bones off a sheer drop. But she saw it, somehow. The boy in the real world throwing the rock, shattering the window.

She had  _felt it_.

She had screamed, like something had punctured her  _eye_. She could feel - she could feel something oozing out, blood she had thought and she ran - stumbled, tripped over herself - to find the nearest bathroom, the nearest mirror.

Her eye was - it wasn’t  _damaged_.

Tree sap, gold and sticky clung to her skin, and her eye glowed a faint green before fading into the familiar. The pain lingered. She could barely keep her eye open through the pain. But it was sap. it was gold and slow as it oozed out of her and she had laughed.

She could see that same teenager falling down the slope, covered in deer shit and leaves.

One night she had heard a loud baying cry. Some animal, injured or lost or hurting. It scraped against her ears, magnified by the echo of stones.

She willed it gone.

The sound disappeared mid yelp.

The next day - or she supposes, when it was no longer dark outside. As if the dark mattered to her anymore. As if it would ever mean anything again. - she went to look for it.

She found it. Impaled on a sharp, jutting spear of stone and ivy. It bloomed as she approached. It had grown through and over the thing.

Lavellan did not know if she was laughing or crying. Her tears were sweet.

“I never consented to this!” She snarls at Solas’ reflection, marching up to it until she is nose to glass, “I never said  _yes_  to any of this. This was not part of our deal.”

“No,” Solas agrees, “And for that I am sorry. But that was between  _us_. This is not between us. This is between you and Skyhold. I have nothing to say or do with that.”

She slams her fist against the glass.

“I want to leave!” She yells at him. She sniffs, her nose feels wet - runny.

That’s been happening, lately.

She used to get more nosebleeds before. When she was higher up the mountains and still traveling. They stopped once she came to Skyhold.

They’ve started again, recently. It’s not blood.

It smells too fresh, too green - too much like cut grass - to be blood.

She smears her arm over her nose, and refuses to look.

“I want to leave,” She repeats.

There’s a scratching at the stones. A pounding at the front door.

“ _I want to leave_ ,” She turns and yells in the direction of the front hall, “I don’t want more of your damn company, I want to  _leave_.”

“Company?” Solas asks.

She glares at him, “Like you don’t know?”

“No,” He says, blinking at her, confusion on his face, “I do not.”

“Skyhold likes to send me visitors,” She hisses. When she stopped ignoring them, she opened the door and found these figures. One, maybe two. Sometimes three or four. All of them tall. Vague. Like masses of smoke or light or some sort of absence of shape coalesced into the forms of people.

They move  _wrong_.

And they don’t  _do anything_  once she opens the door or window.

Lavellan storms through the dining room, the pounding at the door growing louder and louder before she throws the heavy doors open with the touch of her fingertips.

“What?” She screams, “ _What? What? What do you want_?”

This time it’s just one. One tall, black-shaped figure. It lingers swaying.

The whispers start.

“I can’t fucking understand you,” Lavellan snaps, turning around and stomping back into Skyhold’s main hall. “Stop calling for me if I can’t understand you.”

The figure moans, and it sends a shiver galloping down her spine. The sound of the animal from the woods. She turns around and gasps -

The black-shaped figure is directly in her face, hands held up as if to cover her nose and mouth -

 _Let me in_ , it whispers.  _Let me in, little sister, let me in_.

The black of its hands tastes like ash.

 _Let me come home,_ it moans, the weight of it pushing her down to the floor,  _let me in little sister_.


	101. Chapter 101

“I want to make a deal,” Lavellan says, standing in the middle of rubble and ruin, eyes dark and mouth darker. “Do you hear me? I want to make a deal.”

Cole makes soft, animal sounds of distress behind her. She ignores him. In the long run, it’s probably one of the best things she’s done for him recently.

“You shouldn’t,” Cole murmurs between the sharp and cutting sounds of his whimpers, “You shouldn’t. It’s not what he wanted for you.”

She ignores him and his winding way of revealing the truth too late for saving and absolution.

Skyhold’s trees whisper to each other - the continuing chorus of  _stay with me_ , and with her new understanding - a deeper set of voices. A set of voices that comes from far away and far beneath.

 _Let me in_.

“I want to make a deal,” She repeats to the trees with trunks thicker than she is tall. She repeats this to the stones that will see millennium before they lose even a single inch of their faces.

She closes her eyes.

She  _desires._ She  _wants_. She  _wills_.

When she opens her eyes again the black-shape stands in front of her. Skyhold seems to whine with distress, a high pitched keen that is not a real sound but a sort of imagined shiver down the window panes of the mind.

 _Little sister, little sister, won’t you let me come in_? It asks.

“I do not have a brother,” Lavellan says, impatient and already done with these games.

This thing is not Skyhold. This thing is from the other side. She recognizes it now - without the face, without the many trappings of the  _others_ , in its plain-ness and its vagueness she could not place it.

Eyes form on the figure, two golden-red pools that swim to the surface of the darkness and settle into perfect round circles.

_Little sister, you are nothing but brothers and sisters, let me in?_

“No,” Lavellan says. “I did not call  _you_  to make a deal. I do not want to talk to you. Leave.”

The dark-shape shudders, as if wind was trying to disturb the smoke of its nature.

“I said  _leave_ ,” She repeats, stepping forward slowly, purposefully.

For better or for worse, Skyhold has chosen her. He has no power on this side. She does.

Skyhold is a paper thin border between her real world and  _the other_. It is a small place of power, but it is  _hers_.

Like hell she’s going to be bossed around and intimidated by  _him_  here.

Other figures start to shimmer into shapes behind the dark-shaped one. She bares her teeth at them and Skyhold responds - a trilling ghost of fingers down her shoulder, over her elbow, sliding across the delicately smooth skin of her inner arm to curl into the palm of her hand.

Skyhold rumbles and she can feel the space distorting,  _changing_  as she is changed. The figures whine and the dark molten eyed one watches her for a bluff, for her to cave. Stones rumble. The sky darkens. The trees begin to move.

Bodies threaten to return from their graves.

But not  _their_  bodies. Lavellan knows exactly where their bodies lie and she’s got the fingers of her stubborn will to survive firmly locked around each of them.

They made her theirs in  _their_  world. She’s doing the same to them here.

 _We will come home_ , the dark-shape says, fading from view,  _We will return for what was stolen_.

“Finder’s fucking keepers,” Lavellan snaps as Skyhold banishes them back to the other side.

She tries again.

“I want to make a deal,” She whispers one more time.

When she opens her eyes and turns she is faced with a second version of herself. A crude self made of leaves and thick wood pieces - some parts bleached, some parts green with newness, some parts old and decaying - with sap for eyes.

“Open Skyhold to my side,” She says, “Open it and let others come back again.”

 _Stay with me_ , Skyhold says through the facsimile’s mouth,  _I do not want to be alone again_.

“I’ll stay. I won’t leave,” Lavellan says, “I’ll die here like Solas did. I’ll stay with you afterwards, too. Like he does. But return this place back to where it was. Return it to the Frostbacks. Return it.”

Skyhold shakes its head,  _You’ll leave._

“I’ll stay,” She promises. “But you aren’t enough. Being here inside of you all the time isn’t enough. You can’t  _make_  other people.”

Skyhold’s attempts at creating companionship for her have been -  _disturbing_  at best. Destructive at worst.

 _Stay with me_ , Skyhold repeats, reaching for her. The same hands that sprouted from the stone and pulled her onto the other side, the same hands that slide into her palm when the  _others_  tried to come closer, the same hands what wrap around her when she sleeps.

“I will,” Lavellan says, taking the hands into her own as Skyhold tries to mold itself around her, “I  _will_. But not like this.”

 _They hurt you_ , Skyhold whispers,  _they hurt you. They hurt me. So quiet. All alone._

“It’s alright,” Lavellan promises, “I’m alright. I’ll talk to you.”

_Stay here with me._

“I’m staying. But go back to where we were before. I want to die there. And then - after - we can go anywhere you want. You don’t ever have to be on that side again. We can stay here, in between. But I want to die in my world first.”

_How long?_

“I don’t know,” Lavellan says. Honestly, she doesn’t know if she can die. Tree sap for tears and all.

 _How long_? Skyhold repeats.

Lavellan closes her eyes. Any amount would be too much, too little. How do you gage the course of a natural life?

“When I am one hundred years old by the measure of that world, we can go _,_ ” She answers.

 _One hundred_ , Skyhold whispers to itself. The number carries through the branches and underbrush, over flower petals and through cracks of stone.

 _Agreed_ , Skyhold says after a few moments of echoing whispers, hand sliding into hers and squeezing.

Lavellan squeezes back.

She closes her eyes.

She feels the air around them change - and the sounds twist, suddenly popping into strange closeness and vitality.

She opens her eyes and she is standing on the mountain slope outside of Skyhold’s gates. She turns and the castle is as it was before Solas died.

She can hear birds.

The sky is overcast.

She turns and slowly lifts her feet, one at a time. No pain.

Lavellan holds her hands to her ears and listens.

Distantly - airplanes. Helicopters. She is in the right world.

She slowly walks back into the castle, listening.

A telephone.

She stands there, listening to it - dumb struck - before she realizes she has to answer it and she runs towards the sound. The one phone in the entire castle.

She picks it up, breathless - half afraid of what she’ll hear on the other end and then -

“Hey,” His voice is deep, tired, but  _real_. Not fake. Not a whisper. Not one of  _them_. Not Skyhold.

“Hey yourself, stranger,” Lavellan says. Her own voice is not hers. She cannot recognize the delight in it.

“Trial’s finally over, we just got our official go ahead to return to active duty,” Bull says, “If we’re still welcome.”

“Of course,” Her tongue trips over the words, “Yes. Of course you’re welcome. Why wouldn’t you - yes!  _Yes!_ ”

Bull laughs, “You’re going to make me think you missed me.”

 _Oh, you have no idea_ , Lavellan thinks, excitement buzzing through her as she looks around.

Electrical appliances. The clock works. The phone works.

The Iron Bull is coming back.

She’s bought herself time.

“I’ll see you soon.”


	102. Chapter 102

Bull waits until the green light above the one-way window is on to begin the interrogation.

“You’re Fen’Harel’s partner,” He begins.

The woman shakes her head, “No. Sidekick. There’s a difference.”

Bull raises his eyebrows, “Most people wouldn’t like to be called a sidekick.”

“Partner implies a certain degree of culpability, of consent, of  _understanding_ ,” She explains, hand lying flat on the table as she meets his gaze. “Partner implies an equality. Sidekick.  _Sidekick_  seems to invoke the opposite. Dependence. Following. A lack of individuality and control. Not entirely blameless of the acts done, but - there is a degree of coercion, manipulation,  _guidance_  involved.”

“Alright,” Bull concedes, “You are Fen’Harel’s sidekick. And how did you come to be his sidekick?”

So far none of Bull’s senses are picking up anything unusual. No lies, no use of powers.

Frankly, no one is really sure  _what_  her powers are. Until twenty minutes ago, no one knew her name.

Ellana Lavellan.

Leliana’s people are still trying to figure out where she came from. With a twenty minute head start, he’s not sure how they’ll reconcile it all together in time to give Evelyn their final verdict of Sera’s latest - ah. Rehabilitation project.

Two years ago, Fen’Harel suddenly became accompanied by a thin figure wrapped head to toe in gray cloth, nothing but the eyes. She never did anything. Never spoke.

Mostly she just went where he went. Or watched over his Dreams when he was elsewhere for him.

“How else does anyone arrive anywhere?” Ellana tilts her head, “I was  _made_  to be his sidekick.”

What Bull wouldn’t give to be on the other side of that fucking glass where he has no doubt in his mind that everyone gathered is throwing a fit and a half.

Bull slowly reaches up and covers her entire face with his hand, gently lowering her head to the table. She doesn’t resist. He’s as gentle as he can be.

“You are one of his Dreams,” Bull says, as calmly as he can. That’s strange. She doesn’t  _feel_  like one of the man’s Dreams. She feels like a person. “Sera, why the fuck did you bring a Dream here?”

“I am not one of his Dreams,” Lavellan says softly. “Don’t be cross with Sera. She doesn’t know anything about me, either.”

Bull turns towards the glass, waiting.

A few seconds later, the intercom crackles to life.

“I don’t know,” Sera says, sounding shaken. “Fuck, I don’t - I don’t know. I don’t. I - I don’t remember? What was I- ? What was I doing?”

“I am not one of his Dreams,” Lavellan repeats, “And Sera brought me here because she knew I could help you and she knew that I needed you just as much as you needed me. Sera brought me here because I told her what I was. But she doesn’t know now. It’s not her fault. Will you let me look at you? He isn’t here, I promise.”

None of Bull’s senses detect any lies. Nothing but truth from her.

He releases her head and she raises it slowly, eyes on him.

“Fen’Harel becomes a god in his sleep,” She says, “But we are all gods. Some of us more than others. He dreams so many things alive, you have to understand. He has dreamed more things than you will ever know. Than anyone could ever imagine. He dreamed me, but I am no longer one of his Dreams.”

“If you were one of his Dreams - he would have had to have dreamt you again and again,” Bull says.

Lavellan’s eyes are solemn and clear.

“He did. A new me for every night,” She confirms. “Every time he woke up I’d disappear with the rest of him. And every night he dreamed me new. Until - “

“Until?”

“One night he dreamt me  _wrong_ ,” Lavellan’s voice trembles.

Bull’s eye slides to her arm. Or lack thereof.

She shakes her head. “Not that. You’ve seen me before with that. That wasn’t what was wrong with me that time.”

It’s true. Before when she had no name or face, when she was just Fen’Harel’s  _sidekick_  she had all her limbs. She looked healthy, overall. Not hurt or anything.

They had thought Fen’Harel had just raised up one of his sycophants from follower to adjunct.

“What happened?” Bull asks.

“He dreamt me into a better him,” She says, “He made too many mistakes. He made me into a better version of what he could have been. And he dreamt me over and over again and - you must know. You of all people should know,” Her voice is beseeching, pained, “What it is to be made and unmade, molded and changed at someone else’s desire. What if - what if one day he didn’t dream me again? What if he stopped wanting me? What if he just - he just stopped dreaming me? What if he dreamt something  _new_? Something better?”

Lavellan’s remaining hand curls and she shrinks in on herself.

“One night he was angry and he was - he was too wound up? He dreamt me into a better version of him by accident, or subconsciously, I don’t know - and when I could feel that he was waking up I - I went with him. I didn’t want to die again, I didn’t want to - “ Lavellan closes her eyes. “I didn’t want to be beholden on him any longer, so I made  _myself_  real. I cut myself off from his Dream.”

Lavellan’s hand slowly flattens out on the metal table.

There are still no lies. He can sense her distress and her obvious pain, but there are no lies.

“And when I opened my eyes again I was with him,  _here_ , in the waking world.” Lavellan swallows softly. “And I was exactly as I was when he Dreamed for the last time.  _Better than him in every way_.”

“How do you mean  _better_?” Bull asks.

Lavellan’s eyes lift to him, “I cannot lie.”

“A definite improvement,” Bull muses.

“All of us are gods,” Lavellan repeats, “Some of us, more than others. Fen’Harel did not think himself a god, but he did think himself -  _chosen_. A - a leader. A creator. A changer. A movement driver. When he Dreamed me that last time - he dreamed a person who’s changes would not be undone, a person who’s momentum would not be lost in fantasy and sleep. He dreamed me to have no limits. And I don’t.  _I. Tell. No. Lies_.”

Bull slowly pulls the pieces of that together and lets out a silent, long, breath.

“Whatever I say, so shall it be,” Lavellan says, “And since I came into this world I have said many,  _many_  things.”

“And why did you come here?” Bull asks, “If you could do what you’re implying that you can?”

His hands sweat.

“Because I do not agree with my maker,” Lavellan says, “Because I think he is wrong. Because he is looking for me - because I have done something to him that he wants desperately to be undone.”

“What did you do?”

Lavellan looks down, her face scrunching up - tears and heat. Bull’s senses prickle with it. She begins to cry, curling up over the table, burying her face into her elbow.

When the Qun made him, they made him to sense and see and feel and think better and faster than most others. Any spy should be able to do that. But they did not make him with the ability to  _define_  moments.

So Bull can only sit and wait for further instruction.

“When I made myself real, and no longer a Dream,” Lavellan says between sobs, “I didn’t want - I didn’t want him to replace me. So I said that I would be the last one. He wouldn’t ever be able to Dream up a person again. None of his Dreams would ever have power like mine. I said - I said that he would never Dream anything as powerful as me again. And it was  _true_. But - but just because he couldn’t Dream another doesn’t mean he didn’t have  _me_. He kept me  _close_. At first it was because he was all I knew and he was still my maker and everything and - but later. He got scared. He was afraid of me.”

Lavellan drags her hand through her hair.

“I was afraid of  _him, too_.”

“What did you do?” Bull repeats.

Lavellan’s shoulders shake and she slowly moves her hand over to her arm.

“He Dreamed something terrible,” She whispers. “He Dreamed a thing the exact opposite of me. And I - “

“You?”

Lavellan looks up into him, “It erased my arm. It erased parts of me.  _He was undoing me_.”

Her face is red with fear and hurt and anger.

“So I undid  _him_ ,” She chokes out, “ _Fen’Harel will never Dream again_.”

Bull lets out a breath like he’d been hit by a fucking car.

Lavellan sobs, eyes closing and letting her head drop against the metal table.

“He’ll never Dream again, but he knows - he knows that - if he could just. If I went back to him I’d undo it.”

“Why would you undo it?”

Lavellan curls her arm around her head.

“Lavellan, why would you undo it?”

“Because when he Dreams his Dreams he always makes sure that they can’t hurt him,” She replies, voice muffled through her arms. “I had loop holes, but ultimately - he could make me undo it. If he got close enough.”

She slowly looks up at him through the mess of her hair.

“I approached Sera and told her this, and then I made her forget again. But I needed to come here. You’re the only ones who could help me.  _I don’t want him to unmake me_. Please.  _Don’t let him unmake me_.”


	103. Chapter 103

“You lied,” Color begins to blanche from the young Sylvari’s face and leaves, her blossoms shrivel inwards. Solas tries not to mourn them. He tries not to be hurt by the look of sorrow and pain and disbelief in her face. “You were never one of the soundless. You aren’t -  _you aren’t form the Pale Tree._ ”

“No,” Solas confirms.

The airship rocks with explosions. Solas can hear the fighting all the way out on the deck. He can hear the struggle within.

He can see it in her face.

All Sylvari, regardless of which tree they do or do not come from, can feel it in this very moment.

“You’re one of Mordrem’s,” Lavellan says, voice cracking as she repeats it again - louder, this time, over the wind, “ _You’re one of Mordrem’s!_ ”

“Yes,” Solas says and Lavellan’s face is a mask of horror and fear. “Little sister of the Grove, you will learn - all of you will learn. This is the higher purpose.”

“What could be a higher purpose than love and peace?” Lavellan cries out over the wind, “What higher purpose is there?  _Any purpose is higher than this destruction and death_. Ventari - “

“The Pale Tree was not Ventari’s,” Solas reminds her, “The Pale Tree, your Mother, came from something far greater than Ventari, with greater purpose. You can hear it, no? That purpose?”

“It is  _wrong_ ,” Lavellan cries out. Large, clear, almost impossibly round drops of water begin to well up in her eyes.

“It is the truth of us, Ellana,” Solas says gently, “And the sooner you recognize and understand it, the sooner you can learn to lead and control it.”

“As you do?” Ellana asks.

“Yes,” Solas nods, “As I do.”

“And then what?” Ellana asks, hand tight around the railing of the airship. The Silverwastes below them hurtle closer and closer with every moment - foot by foot, they are losing altitude. Soon they will be in reach of Mordrem’s ground soldiers. “What then, Solas?”

“Then the true work begins,” Solas says, “Zhaitan was a plague that had to be removed. The dead belong where they are. This world is no longer for them.”

“And it’s for  _you_?”

“For  _us_ ,” Solas replies, “The living. We are the Sylvari - we are the purest essence of life. We are what comes next. We are what has come before. We are  _every when and every one_. Tell me you do not see it, Ellana. We the Sylvari have been in the roots of this earth for far longer than any Charr, Human, Asura, Dwarf, or any other creature has been. This is our right.”

“This is  _wrong_ ,” Ellana replies, a flicker of cold fire in her eyes before shadows spread over her body - the long scythe materializes in her hands, her voice distorts with the magic, “ _You_  are wrong. We have a right to live - a right to roam the land -, but so does  _everyone else_. That is life, that is love -  _and defending that right is the highest purpose there could ever be_.”

She does not give him a chance to refute.

Solas does not give her a chance to attack.

She goes flying off of the airship like a broken and browned leaf in the wind.

Solas watches her fall and reminds himself that Mordrem shaped the Sylvari in the image of man, but out of higher things. These are not tears.

-

Bull almost picks up and throws four Pact soldiers out of his way as he pushes through the camp - the sounds of mortars exploding, Pact helicopters trying to find clearance, the sounds of fire and smoke and everything the Pact has left to fight Mordrem back - to her.

Dorian’s slipped ahead of him. Dorian makes up for the fact that he’s a human and thus has a shorter stride by being a human and being able to slip through the crowd faster.

Dorian is loudly arguing with the guards -  _guards_ , Bull can’t fucking believe this. Like the Sylvari are fucking animals now. Flames, the Pact has gone to fucking pieces. The Sylvari are their allies. Some of their best allies.

And anyone who’s ever met one of the walking salad bowls would know that they aren’t very much inclined towards dark and terrible things on their own.

Nightmare Court? Different story.

But Sylvari connected to the Pale Tree? That’s different.

“She’s dangerous,” One of the guards says and Bull snarls, a low sound that vibrates through his jaw.

“So is the very angry Charr standing immediately behind me,” Dorian snaps, bubbling and flickering bright green at his fingertips, “And for that matter,  _so am I_. Move before Bull and I both try to remove you at the same time.”

Bull doesn’t wait, he reaches around Dorian and gives the guard a hard  _shove._

Dorian and Bull both ignore all the weapons pointed at them, pointed at Ellana and go to her.

“She’s hurt,” Dorian hisses, “ _Did no one think to_ \- bloody fools, of course they wouldn’t. Six avert their eyes, this is beyond shameful.”

Ellana sits, calmly, peacefully, still. Her eyes are closed, her hands are in her lap, and she doesn’t move. She looks -

Drained. Withered. Dry.

Bull carefully touches the back of a knuckle to her cheek, inwardly wincing at the crackling sound the touch makes against what are normally soft, luminescent petals at her temple.

“It’s you,” She whispers softly. Dorian’s hands are gentle as he slowly starts checking her injuries.

“Did they do this to you?” Bull asks, positioning himself to shield her from view as much as possible.

“No,” She answers, “Most of it no. Some of it, yes - when they were bringing me here. I tried not to fight. It can’t be helped.”

“Like hell it can’t,” Dorian snarls under his breath.

Ellana opens her eyes and looks at Bull, slowly raising a hand to his face. Her fingers are thin as they wind through his fur, over his cheek. Her eyes are wet.

“He wasn’t Soundless,” She whispers, voice cracking like her skin. “Bull - he lied. He lied to all of us. He isn’t Soundless at all.”

Bull almost asks the foolish question of  _who_?

“Where’s Cole?” He asks instead.

She shakes her head. “He wasn’t on the same ship I was.”

She takes in a soft breath, “You both came?”

“Of course,” Dorian says, “We came running as soon as Evelyn told us.”

Ellana’s eyes water. “She sent you?”

“Even if she didn’t there’d be no stopping us from getting to you,” Dorian tells her. Bull gently cups the back of her head - not quite touching the drooping petals and leaves. “Did you not see how this one charged in here like his namesake Chargers? No one in the world would have stopped either of us from coming for you.”

She sniffles, “They’re burning. I - I was. I thought - “

“You thought that Evelyn would let them burn you?” Bull asks. Oh, humans know  _nothing_  of fire.

Ellana turns away from them and looks towards the wastes, “Bull, I don’t think Evelyn would let them do any of this if she saw. They could have been saved.”

The tears start to fall, then. Slowly but surely.

Bull bumps his nose against her forehead and shushes her.

“Let’s save you first,” Dorian says, “Then we can get to work on being heroes.”


	104. Chapter 104

“My sire abandoned this world and all of its inhabitants a long, long time ago,” Ellana says, calm as the sea and the sky as Evelyn’s hand - singular - slowly opens and closes. “He left for some greater world that only he can see and remember, one where I have no place. He and I work at cross purposes. We are both blind dreamers in each other’s eyes.”

What the hell does that make Evelyn, then?

“You knew who was behind all of this and you said nothing,” Evelyn’s voice cracks. A thousand warnings not to trust the Witch of the Wild. A thousand ways Ellana has betrayed that foolish, stupid trust. Maker.

Ellana looks straight into her, “The mark of magic you bore was familiar, I knew this.  When we entered the Temple of Mythal together and I assisted you, I knew that they, too - the sleepers and Sentinels - there would recognize it for what it was. He was my father. He raised me. He loved me. He taught me. He forsook me. He abandoned me. He cast me out.”

“And you still helped him,” Evelyn says, glaring at the woman, “You helped him. You let him do this. You say you two aren’t working together, that the two of you have opposite goals and purposes -  _then why this_?”

“Because this I could not stop,” Ellana replies, “Because I had no way of telling you who my sire was. Because if I had told you that my father walked among you, a wolf among your hounds, you would not have believed me. Look at Sera - she walked through the Temple of Mythal, saw you ask her favor, and still she denies and denounces with every breath. Look to your Chantry, that of which you are so devoted, and how they strike down my existence with every breath. Look to every single person surrounding you - from your beloved and precious Commander to the stable boy. Not a single one of you would believe.”

“So you stay silent? There were other ways.”

“I tell you that my father is the Dread Wolf. I tell you of what he has done. Would you believe me, Evelyn Trevelyan?” Ellana asks, “Suppose you do. Will you move others to believe me as well? Or are you now under the spell of the Witch of the Wilds as Celene was? Let us take this hypothetical further, now. Suppose I do not tell you of the Dread Wolf, but simply point you in the direction of him. I tell you that there is a man in the forest who you must seek to end this, for this is the one who started. You ask me, now, how do I know? Where is my proof? Because you are Evelyn Trevelyan and you would never condemn or raise a hand against a living creature that has not struck you first, or has not been proven guilty beyond a doubt.”

Ellana tilts her head, “In what world do you believe me? In what world do you trust me as anything other than an outsider who has hurt the Iron Bull before, who has frightened the court of Orlais, who has frightened  _your_  Inquisition with my  _otherness_?”

“I would have believed you.” Evelyn lunges forward, pushing past the tearing and burning pain in her - her  _stump_  - and seizes Ellana by the collar of  her damn fur and shakes her, “And even then - even then. Even if I did not believe you. You could have done a thousand and one other things. You could have acted on your own, you could have found some way - some - “

“And just  _how_  powerful, just how quick, just how sly, and just how all knowing do you think I am, Inquisitor?” Ellana sneers, “That I could work behind the scenes - alone, without any assistance - to thwart this? To find all of his spies? To cut off his entire network? To find every single insurgent root and strangling vine and watching eye? Was I supposed to single handedly work over your Spymaster and your Ambassador and Commander all at once, behind you? Do you underestimate your people so much that you think I wouldn’t be caught if I could do those things? And then what? How do I explain myself then, Inquisitor? Tell me. Tell me how I should have done better. Tell me how I could have saved you.”

-

“Leaving again?”

“Did you know? Everyone is always caught in the act of leaving. All of us are leaving all the time,” Ellana replies, turning her head to slowly look up at him. “We are all always saying goodbye.”

She’s always had beautiful words for the most painful and common of events, Bull muses.

Ellana returns to making sure her belongings are carefully and securely bundled together. Bull is used to traveling light, but he’s a soldier and a - now former - spy. Ellana carries less than he does, even. he wonders how it’s so easy for her to leave so many things behind.

How has she lived so long without collecting anything worth keeping? Worthy staying?

“But you don’t,” Bull points out, “Say goodbye.”

“Goodbyes are sad,” Ellana remarks, “Goodbyes are final. As the world and time flows, so do people. I do not like saying goodbye, the Iron Bull, not to the people I want to see again.”

Ellana’s eyes are soft, but the edges of her face are sharp.

“I will never say goodbye to you, or give you a chance to say goodbye. Because I want to see you again and again and again and again,” Ellana says, “Because wherever I go I want to think that you are where I can come back to.”

“A little cruel, to leave and expect to be welcomed back so easily.” Though Bull supposes that he hasn’t made a particularly good point, seeing as he pretty much did welcome her back into his heart. Did she ever really leave it?

“Not expect,  _hope_ ,” Ellana replies. “I hope for it, but I do not ask for it.”

“And if I asked you to say goodbye?”

“Would you?”

“Depends. Would you accept it? Would you respect it?”

Ellana smiles, “I respect you.”

“But would you respect it if I asked you to say goodbye?”

Ellana is silent, her eyes searching him.

“Yes,” She answers, softly, barely a real sound. “If you told me to say goodbye I would never come back. You would never see me again. I would never look for you. Not in Dreams, not in waking.”

Bull searches himself for a door to close on this chapter of his life. And he finds it gone.

He breathes softly and exhales long.

Ellana seems to be waiting.

“Will you ask?” She finally says.

“No,” Bull answers, “Not this time.”

Perhaps the next, when he is better prepared.  Perhaps next time, when he is truly ready.


	105. Chapter 105

“Step away from the walking salad bowl,” Sera says, eyes narrowed and bow drawn tight, “Or else I’m going to shoot you so hard that they’ll have to peel you off the walls with a sub-atomic particle separator. It won’t be pretty.”

Lavellan looks dazed and confused, and  _small_. She looks all curled up. Like a fern or some sort of sensory capable plant. A four o’clock or something.

Sera dislikes this immensely.

She doesn’t give the Nightmare Court a chance to respond. She fires at immediately shadow-steps closer, switching to her daggers as she cuts Lavellan free and then works on carving up the other Sylvari.

Lavellan gathers herself, grabbing onto a wand one of the Nightmare Court dropped and starts firing off energy bolts while limping as far away from the fight as possible.

The fight is over within minutes and Lavellan is a pale and gray looking wilted salad, drooped down on a rock.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” Lavellan says when Sera comes closer, holding out some water to her.

“Listen, Lavellan. I may not agree with you on anything or like you,” Sera says, “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you to the Nightmare Court. I’m not a total ass like that. I hope that whatever you came here for was worth it.”

Lavellan beams, nodding her head, “The Iron Bull said that the best way to counteract a poison is to derive the antidote from the poison directly instead of trying to synthesize it based off of secondary accounts and guesses. The Nightmare Court has all sorts of poisons!”

“Do you know which one he needed?” Sera asks.

Lavellan blinks, “No. I was just going to get some of all of them.”

Great.

“And you’d transport them  _how_?”

Lavellan droops a little more, “Oh. I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“You don’t think very much at all, dandelion head,” Sera rolls her eyes. “Come on. Let’s go get these poisons so that the fur-ball can do stuff with them.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Sera! I  _knew_  you aren’t as tough as everyone says you are. You know Varric told me that you’re only mean to me to help me toughen up. Get tougher skin, as they say. You’re so nice, Sera.”

-

“So, what does the Commander have to say about the Bull’s new tag-along?” Varric asks when Dorian comes over to them.

“Well, the Pact isn’t in the business of turning away people who want to help fight dragons,” Dorian says, taking a seat next to him, “So of course Lavellan is in. But that aside, the two are getting on like a house on fire. Considering that Evelyn’s particularly attuned to flame magic and that Lavellan is a necromancer, you can see how this could be taken quite literally.”

“Good to know,” Varric nods, tossing some miscellaneous bits and bobs between his hands, “But what did she have to say about the whole - dream thing?”

“No comment on that one. Evelyn’s taking Lavellan to see Trahearne, now. Apparently Lavellan studied Orr a bit when she was trying to figure out her Dream,” Dorian muses, stroking his mustache, “Solas says it was quite impressive that Lavellan figured out her Wild Hunt within a month of waking and got to it so fast. Speedy progress, that one.”

“Not much for speed in other things,” Sera rolls her eyes. “I swear, every new batch of cabbages that tree sprouts is a little dimmer than the last. A downhill trend.”

“Don’t be mean, Sera, you’re just jealous that no one’s Wild Hunt is to find you and be with you,” Dorian says.

“Jealous of having the equivalent of an infant made of twigs following me around and getting in my way? I don’t think so, Pavus,” Sera sneers.

-

“And what happened to  _you_?” Dorian asks, eyebrows raising when he spots Bull trudging in through Fort Trinity’s gates looking like he got caught in one devil of a storm.

“Evelyn and Lavellan are bonding,” Bull replies, “Apparently Lavellan likes jump puzzles.”

“That’s nice, someone to finally go with Evelyn on her break-neck stunts,” Dorian muses.

“No, not nice. Lavellan didn’t know what a jump puzzle was until Evelyn took her to one,” Bull says, snarling under his breath.

“Alright, and your problem is?”

“The reasonable thing to me, you’d think, is to take the person who’s never done a jump puzzle before to an easy one,” Bull says. “Shaman’s Rookery, the Ascalonian wall, Spelunker’s Delve, and such.”

“And let me guess, Evelyn didn’t do any of that.”

“No. She took Lavellan to the one in Lornar’s pass,” Bull says, “Windy what-’s it called.”

Dorian grimaces. Not the hardest jump puzzle. But certainly not one you’d want to bring a greenhorn to. Especially not a greenhorn that was born - er, sprouted? Less than two or three months ago.

“Are they alive?”

“They’re going to swing by Lion’s Arch to try the Troll’s Revenge,” Bull says, “I didn’t want to watch that go on so I came back here. I don’t even know how far they’ll make it.”

“For someone so terrible at it, Evelyn sure does enjoy doing them,” Dorian muses.

“I think it’s because she’s more competitive than she thinks,” Bull says. “It’s because she’s shit at them she won’t let it go. If she were better at solving them the first time around she probably wouldn’t care as much. Bad habits to be teaching Lavellan.”

“You’re the one who left her to it.”

“For my own sanity and patience, yeah. I did. But that doesn’t mean whatever daredevil break-neck stunt streak Lavellan learns to crave from her is my fault.”

“Whatever helps you rationalize your choices. I take it Lavellan isn’t any better?”

“Oh, she’s leagues better than Evelyn. But most people are, so that’s not saying much. She just tends to get distracted. Also she’s not particularly strong or battle-wise yet, so she tends to get knocked over and knocked out more,” Bull says. “They couldn’t have started with Morgan’s Spiral or something short and simple like that. I swear. These two ladies are out to get me.”


	106. Chapter 106

“Welcome, welcome, come in, come in, spread out,” A cheery voice calls from deep within the maze of wooden planks and dodgy looking lights that look like they’ve been burning for - for years, based on the accumulation of melted wax. Evelyn looks around, eyeing the many bits and bobbles that hang from thick rope and metal chains from the ceilings, bound to walls, hanging off of every sort of shelf and possible addition you could think of.

Drawers, cabinets, shelves, buckets, pails, cups, sconces, nooks, niches, everything that could hold space has been put in and fastened to something else, here.

All of it teams with the promising whisper of  _something-ness_  that Evelyn can’t explain.

“I received a letter,” Evelyn calls out, following the vague and winding path of wood through narrow and tall corridors filled with  _things_ , “Is this - is this the Black Emporium?”

“Yes, you’ve found it, welcome,” The voice grows louder and more cheerful as Evelyn moves in deeper, she glances over her shoulder at Varric who shrugs and Bull who looks deeply unamused at having to squeeze in through such a narrow space, “Come in and spread out, I promise it isn’t nearly as tight a squeeze once you get past the caskets.

“The  _caskets_?” Cassandra deadpans and sure enough, Evelyn sees two caskets up ahead. One of them hangs from the wall at an incredibly dangerous angle, held up by two chains. Evelyn shudders at the thought of it falling or, Maker forbid,  _opening_  while they’re walking under it. The other casket is just half an outline jutting out of a wooden mass of doors, window panes, and mirrors.

Evelyn shudders as they pass underneath the first, and edge around the second. But the voice wasn’t lying, almost immediately after passing the caskets the narrow and tall walkway spreads out gradually, the space looking neater and more tidy and somehow more -

Sunny.

A strange word for a shop that’s located down a tunnel directly into the ground, marked only by a faint wooden sign hidden behind ivy and moss, nailed to a very old and gnarled tree.

Evelyn cautiously moves forward, testing the wood underneath her boots - it feels sturdy. It feels - old. It feels  _alive_  somehow. It feels  _aware_.

“Hello and welcome, friends!”

Evelyn looks up and sees a flash of a person, jumping and climbing between cabinets and ropes and ladders and nets before dropping down with a loud  _thump!_  a few feet away from them, straightening up and beaming.

“You didn’t get lost! Cheers to you, it can be surprisingly confusing in there. I keep meaning to sort it out but I get distracted,” The woman says, eyes and smile so dazzling Evelyn feels like she’s taken a mallet to the head.

This is not what she expected. Not by a long-shot.

“I’m Lavellan, I run this Emporium,” Lavellan says, gesturing her arm out around them, “Have you, by any chance, seen a miniature bear abouts? Bless his heart, he’s a darling, but he can be a right terror to strangers. If you  _do_  see him, just - erm. Avoid eye contact, I suppose. I think he thinks that it’s a threat to his dominance.”

Lavellan lowers her voice, looking around before cupping her hands to her mouth and whispering at Evelyn, “I think  _he_  thinks that  _he’s_  the one in charge here.”

“I - “ Evelyn starts, and then turns to the others for help.

“What is your business with the Inquisitor?” Cassandra, ever dependable and unflappable Cassandra, says for Evelyn.

“All business!” Lavellan says, throwing her hands up, “I don’t know how much you know about me and my Emporium, but I only invite the most interesting of people to come visit me.”

“That explains a lot of things,” Varric mumbles.

“Hi!” Lavellan waves, “I recognize  _two_  of you, which means something because I don’t normally get repeat visitors. I think people think I’m off putting. Or they die. Or both.”

“Rumor has it that the Black Emporium has been around since forever,” Varric says to Evelyn, “And it’s always been the same owner.”

Evelyn turns to stare at what looks like a woman around her age with laughing eyes and a dazzling beaming smile.

Rumor, of course, she thinks.

“No, he’s right,” Lavellan says, “One hundred percent true. All me.”

Lavellan points both thumbs at herself, “The original founder of the Black Emporium. The one and only employee.”

“Not a demon,” Bull says and Evelyn glances over her shoulder to see him putting a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder, “Arguably something worse, but not to  _us_.”

Lavellan narrows her eyes, tilting her head back and forth before beaming, “You’re the Iron Bull! I remember you. You came here so long ago. Oh, goodness, how time passes. You look  _older_.”

“And you look just as cheery, been occupied?” Bull glances around, “It feels much narrower than before.”

“Or you’re much bigger than before! I swear I thought I was cleaning things out, but then I’ve found all sorts of things,” Lavellan shakes her head. “We’re getting off track, I think.”

Lavellan blinks at Evelyn who must look like some sort of gaping fish.

“I’m cursed,” Lavellan says, waving a hand dismissively, “Millennium or so a go I was - I wanted so many thing. Eyes bigger than my mouth and stomach as they say. I wanted to see the  _world_. I wanted to know  _everything_. And I got the opportunity. So now here I am. Seeing the world. Always. Forever.  _All the time_.”

Lavellan, for a split second, under the lights that suddenly flicker like an involuntary blink that Evelyn isn’t sure is a blink or not, looks  _old and tired and dark and jagged_.

“I called you here because you are going to be someone pivotal, someone  _important,_  a lodestone and a keystone in this world,” Lavellan says, “Because I recognize this. I recognize the turning of the world, the change in the music and melody and melodrama, I know this. I know  _you_ , Evelyn Trevelyan. I’ve seen your face, I’ve seen your heart, I’ve seen your soul, a hundred, a thousand times over.”

Lavellan smiles, “I know the shine of someone who stands through a storm. And I’ve called you here because what I have? Everything I have? It’s here. For you if you need it. There are rules to this curse. I can’t help you. I can’t tell you things or show you things. I can only be here and offer you things to buy or trade as you want. I want you to know that. I’m here.”

Lavellan’s smile wavers, like mist, “I’m  _always_  here.”

How lonely, Evelyn thinks.

“Then I’ll make sure to come back often,” Evelyn says, and watches Lavellan’s cheer bloom back up again through the mist. “I hope you don’t mind, the Inquisition keeps a peculiar sort of time.”

“Any time, every time,” Lavellan breathes out laughing, spinning around, “Everything here, anything here. Let me show you - over here, look, see? This mirror can change how you look. I wouldn’t recommend it, you never get satisfied and the lighting in here is  _awful_. And, and, and over here - “


	107. Chapter 107

It’s been seven years. Seven years since the last long moon, the last long night. The last time the Iron Bull saw Lavellan.

He walks with her over the black mirror of the water, their feet make no ripples.

The sky above them is as black as the water, broken by stars and the two moons. But wrong.  The constellations shifts, blinking in and out of existence and order. The moons seem to grow and shrink in size every time he looks at them, every time he looks away from her.

Things move around them. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees glimpse of color that create the shapes of people, places - and he watches some as they walk past. Some of them are scenes. Some of them are people within scenes.

Bull watches ghosts of time argue and kiss and fight and storm off and sit and sleep and dress and bathe and attend to their toilette and eat and drink and be sick.

His gaze focuses again on Lavellan. This is her life. Walking between time and space. Always. There are others here, he knows. Those things that are not things but not quite people as he understands people, those things that make their home and their beds and their hearths and their docks in this space that is unanchored through time and space.

“Yes,” Lavellan answers him suddenly, to the question that he had not yet asked her, to the question he was not sure he was going to ask her.

She turns to look at him over her shoulder, with her dark eyes that are not mirrors but more like mouths, sucking in the world and swallowing it.

“I was there,” Lavellan answers, stopping momentarily to turn to face him fully, open and solid and tangibly real in a way that nothing else he can see or sense here is. “I was then. Everywhere and every when. Eventually.”

She smiles, a brief touch of color to her that is saturated like her mouth drained the color out of the times that act themselves out around them, “I heard everything you said to me. I answered back. I know you didn’t hear. But you know me.”

More touches of color bleed into her as she smiles wider, eyes turning into gleaming crescents as she laughs, repeating it again - louder.

“You  _know_  me.”

“Did I get your answers right, then?” Bull asks her.

“Usually,” Lavellan says, “Sometimes you even answered better than I knew myself to answer.”

Bull feels himself smiling back.

“If we had more time,” Lavellan says, a somber drop to the corners of her lips and eyes, “I would take you back to those moments. And I would show you. I would tell you exactly as I am.”

“But we don’t,” Bull says, “It’s alright. We have a Wolf to hunt.”

Lavellan nods, turning back towards the horizon-less expanse of black before them.

“The last time our worlds crossed, he was unleashed upon your world and he destroyed so much,” Lavellan says, “We must find him and drive him back into this plane before the Long Night ends. He cannot be allowed to remain on your side, where the damage is permanent.”

Bull reaches out and ghosts a fingertip over her the back of her neck, finger pushing through thick, soft,  _cold_  hair to touch her smooth skin. He traces his finger from her neck to her shoulder, and down.

“It’s permanent here, too,” Bull says.

“I would rather his damage be done here,” Lavellan says, steps momentarily slowing to bring them closer together, “Than where you are. At least here, they can be -  _managed_.”

Bull does not necessarily agree with this, but he understands what she means.

On this side of time, all damage is negotiable.

“We’ll find him,” Bull says, “He’s gotten old.”

Lavellan laughs, a burst of bright things in the darkness, “He has always been old. The Wolf was born Old, he will die Old.”

She turns her brightness onto him, “He is always the prey of the new.”

Bull’s finger turns into a hand, into an arm around her shoulders as he holds her as closely as he dares. As she allows.

“Not all of us are so lucky to be hunted by someone as good as you,” Bull says. “Most of us are just hunted by death.”

“A slow predator, but the most sure,” Lavellan muses, “I’ve not once caught onto mine.”

“But you’re on his heels, he will tire, he will make a mistake,” Bull assures her.

“Let us hope, the Iron Bull, that mistake is made before our time together is done,” Lavellan says, sliding from underneath his hand - the feeling of fluid glass - and in the process raising her hand, her fingers, to curl with his. “In one of these other times, we are not limited by the age and newness of our blood and there is freedom to explore the sea of it. But not in this one.”

“No,” Bull agrees.

They both know he won’t survive if the Long Night ends and he’s still on this side of time.

They have to hurry.

Lavellan suddenly turns, eyes fixed on some distant star and she raises her hand to point, “I catch sight of him. Look. See?”

Bull turns his eye to the sky and it is now the water.

They look down into the water and see the glimmer of green, faint and distorted.

“Are you ready for this hunt to begin in earnest, the Iron Bull?” Lavellan asks, “I need your eye. I need your certainty. I will bring us in, I will run and I will fly, leap, and swim for us both. Just hold on. And do not look away.”

Lavellan’s hand squeezes his, like obsidian to the touch.

“Do not look away from this hunt,” She insists.

“I won’t,” Bull promises, “Let’s begin.”

Lavellan hesitates.

She squeezes his hand, voice wavering from the surety and solidity it has been for the first time tonight, “The Iron Bull?”

“Yes?”

“I won’t let you go,” She says to him, “Not now. Not then. Not ever. Even when you die and are not longer anywhere I can come to you - even when you have passed beyond the reach of this dimension.  _I won’t let you go_.”

“Kadan,” Bull says, willing some warmth from his hand to hers, “You will always have me. Let’s hunt your Wolf.”


	108. Chapter 108

“You!” Bull glances up and sees Lavellan standing in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes wide and pointing at him, “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Bull answers, eyebrows raising as Lavellan stomps her foot, “Are we getting a divorce that I should know about?”

“No! You were  _supposed_  to be out  _doing things_  tonight,” Lavellan says, “You said you’d be out late tonight.”

“Changed my mind,” Bull says, watching her as she huffs her way into the kitchen, tossing down her bag onto the table. “Didn’t feel like a night out with the guys. Is that a problem? Got plans?’

“Yes! In fact I  _did_ ,” Lavellan says, “I had a nice dinner planned out and now I have to make dinner for  _two!_ ”

Bull blinks, choosing to enter the kitchen, leaning against the doorway to watch her pull ingredients out of the fridge.

“Kadan, you  _always_  cook dinner for two,” Bull points out.

“That’s different,” Lavellan says, looking between a head of lettuce and a head of cabbage, “We both eat enough for two people anyway, so it’s like - I’d be making for two, meaning  _myself_ , rather than four, meaning  _you and me_.”

Makes sense.

“Point,” Bull concedes, “But you’re also cooking for two in the literal sense that you’re pregnant.”

Lavellan pauses, tapping her foot on the kitchen tile before nodding, “Yeah, point.”

She closes the fridge, having decided on the cabbage.

“What were you going to make for two instead of four?” Bull asks.

“Hot pot,” Lavellan replies, “I was going to set up the electric stove in the living room.”

“We can still do that,” Bull says, “Our fridge is stocked for ten anyway.”

“That’s not the point, I was going to watch stuff.”

Lavellan, at this point, starts to look dodgy.

“Stuff?”

“Stuff.” Lavellan throws the cabbage at him. He catches it, grinning.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Stuff you think is stupid,” She says, “I’d been saving up things you think are stupid  _all week_  to watch on the television tonight. Now I can’t.”

“Why?” Bull tilts his head. “We can still watch it - whatever it is. You know I don’t actually care about what’s on TV unless it’s actively offensive and pissing one of us off.”

“No, we can’t, because you think it’s stupid and I don’t want you to think  _I’m_  stupid for wanting to watch something _you_  think is stupid and I’ve used the word  _stupid_  too much in one dialogue. You take over while I think of other words to substitute in.”

“One, I won’t think you’re stupid for watching something I don’t have an opinion on,” Bull says, “Two, yeah, I know, I know, everyone has an opinion on something even if that opinion is indifference which is in itself an opinion, yeah. I’ve heard you and Mahanon explain this to everyone we know a thousand times and I get you. Three, I’m fine doing whatever  _you_  want to do. That said, tell me what you had planned? Seriously. Let’s do this night you were planning for yourself together. Exactly as you planned.”

Lavellan’s eyes narrow at him, weighing her options.

She sighs, opens one of the kitchen cabinets next to the sink and pulls out their electric stove.

“I was going to watch youtube play-throughs of otome games,” She finally says, meeting his eyes, a defiant tilt to her chin.

Bull coughs a laugh and smothers it as quickly as he can, turning and coughing into his shoulder as she glares at him.

“Alright, I’m game,” Bull says, moving aside as she quickly strides her into the hallway, brandishing the electric stove like a weapon towards their living room, “Do I get to pick which one we start watching first?”

“No! Because I want to watch the one where they romance the vampire! And it’s the big opener for the night,” Lavellan says, “But I’m willing to concede letting you pick what goes in the hot pot first.”

“Deal.”

-

“Nice baby carrier,” Blackwall says, “Probably would look nicer with an actual baby in it. What is that thing?”

“Some sort of testing device,” Bull says, bouncing a little on his heels and making the strange tangle of wires and circuits jiggle in the baby holster strapped to his chest, “To measure readouts about temperature and stability and something, something, something.”

“Dagna?”

“Dagna and Sera,” Bull replies, “They’re working on making a baby carrier for Baby. They’re in the middle of arguing aesthetics with de Fer and Dorian because apparently this thing has to look fashionable somehow. Dorian and I are testing prototypes for Baby’s future comfort.”

Blackwall’s eyebrows raise, “I’m surprised they didn’t make one for Cullen.”

“Dorian’s is the one they made for Cullen a couple of years back,” Bull says, “They just modified it to fit his body. They never gave it to Cullen. It’s only for one kid, and Evelyn popped out two for the price of one.”

“Let it never be said that the Inquisitor of Thedas isn’t efficient,” Blackwall muses, “Or surprising.”

“And you know Rutherford, he’s gotta be fair to both kids and there’s no way you’re fitting two babies in the front comfortably,” Bull says, “Not without fucking your back up for life.”

“He couldn’t put one in back one in front?”

“He’d feel bad for whichever one was on the back and worry about it not being fair,” Bull points out.

“What happens if Lavellan has twins, too?”

“Two dads,” Bull says, “We can trade off. Also I’m a big guy. I could  _probably_  fit two babies on my chest when they’re newborns.”

“Good thing they aren’t Qunari born,” Blackwall muses, “I don’t think you’d be able to fit two half-Qunari kids.”

“Dorian’s kind of tall, maybe his kids will be big, too,” Bull says, “We don’t know yet.”

“Or Baby - possibly Bab _ies_  could favor their mother,” Blackwall says. “And uncle.”

“Don’t jinx it, Blackwall,” Bull says, “A miniature Mahanon running around the house? Dorian and I would be dead before the kid’s three. And probably not through an accident.”


	109. Chapter 109

In that last moment, before anyone else could think to go after the Inquisitor - the Lavellan’s both leapt. Without thought or hesitation, without command or vocalization, the twin dragons leapt from the rocks their opalescent wings fanning out as they glided to their rider.

And that was the last that was seen of them.

When the bodies are found, only one of the pearl like dragons is recognizable. The other is mangled ash and bone, twisted into a charred carapace like the red-veined black corpses at the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes that stand to this day.

Mahanon crumbled to the touch.

And so did the parts of him that had clung to his sister in his last moments.

Ellana, thought to be dead, let out a long agonizing scream as his body disintegrated, crumbled,  _shattered_.

Their claws had been locked in their crash, and when he fell apart so did a vast majority of her fore claw and the attached wing membranes that ran along her entire left flank. Dust.

Ellana, in her screams of pain, slowly unfurled - or attempted to unfurl - around the third body, still breathing.

“Maker,” Maxwell had swore as he fell to his knees, helpless before the sight of his cousin, his best friend, his Inquisitor, “ _Maker’s breath, Andraste’s sword, flames and ashes_.”

Dorian, skids on his claws, head swinging between the dust of Mahanon and the distress of Ellana, unsure which to address. His keen of loss echoes in Maxwell’s ears as he looks between the dust of his mate and the barely alive remains of his flight-sister.

The Iron Bull crashed into the ground close to them, a breath later - the impact of his great mass almost causing everyone to stumble or fall if they weren’t braced for it. And even those who were braced considered standing as they scrambled out of the way of his crashing gait as he came over, neck outstretched and lowered, a long angry noise curling out from his teeth.

Ellana’s neck momentarily rose up before crashing down agains the ground, unbalanced, in pain, and confused.

Kaaras and Sera touch down closer and are running over, their riders jumping off their backs -

“I need a surgeon!” Maxwell yells out, moving to pull his cousin from the cavern of Ellana’s body. “I have the Inquisitor! And Ellana!  _Prepare for emergency treatment!_ ”

As soon as Evelyn is free and in Maxwell’s arms, the Iron Bull’s jaws open and he gently takes Ellana into his mouth, picking her up and twisting to drape her over his back, raising up onto his hind legs to push into flight.

Maxwell curls over Evelyn as the mighty downstroke of the Iron Bull’s wings sends huge clouds of dust and ash - Mahanon, gone entirely, now - into the air.

Maxwell picks Evelyn up, wishes that there was time for gentleness, and quickly catches Dorian by the horn, “I’m sorry, my friend. There will be time to mourn. I need to save her. We need to save Evelyn and Ellana. They’re all that’s left of him.”

Dorian stills and allows Maxwell to climb onto him, Evelyn held tight to his chest.

“Take us home, Dorian,” is all Maxwell has time to say before Dorian pushes into the air after the Iron Bull, already a shrinking shape in the distance. “Take us home.”

-

Ellana, for a dragon, is fairly mid sized, but she looks incredibly small curled up as she is in between the Iron Bull’s foreclaws. The shimmering pearl-like quality of her scales casts a stream of light onto the Iron Bull’s dull and scarred hide.

Evelyn watches her from a distance, uncertain.

She is unlike how she was before. They all are.

But she is not the dragon she was before. Evelyn doesn’t know if Ellana is still  _her_  dragon.

She is still the dragon that saved Evelyn’s life time and time again. She is still the dragon that is beautiful and gentle and graceful and kind. But she is - quieter, now. More likely to fold up and retract into herself than flare and fan herself out.

Ellana has taken to sleeping a lot. Evelyn isn’t sure if this is normal for dragons in recovery or not. Ellana has suffered a most grievous injury, after all.

Dorian’s been lack luster as well. Maxwell’s made several comments about Dorian not being himself: not responding to obvious invitations for battles of wit and such, ignoring comments made in his direction, being generally unresponsive to most things. Even in flight, Dorian is less likely to make any particularly elegant maneuvers or flashy sweeps. Apparently Dorian’s best is maintaining a certain altitude.

It’s been frustrating Maxwell. He doesn’t know how to help his dragon.

Evelyn can understand. She doesn’t know how to help hers, either.

It doesn’t help that she’s had to perform her duties as Inquisitor on  _another dragon_. Evelyn should be here, with Ellana.

She should be the one Ellana curls up against.

Evelyn shakes her head, it’s not right for her to be envious of the Iron Bull. It isn’t his fault. After all, she’s taken to spending quiet hours just listening to Cullen write down orders and notes.

The Iron Bull nudges the small looking ball of scales against his chest and Ellana momentarily loosens her tight curl, shifting just enough to raise her head to look up at him.

The Iron Bull bumps their noses together and then raises his head to look at Evelyn.

Evelyn feels a quick and electric knot of anxiety build in her chest when Ellana slowly twists her head to look at her from across the lagoon.

It’s like she’s waiting to be picked all over again, Evelyn thinks. It’s like when the Inquisition first started and they had no dragons to their name and Evelyn had  _never_  had a dragon to hers. And Ellana - and Mahanon - twisting like ribbons in the sky came and they chose  _her_  to be  _their_  rider.

A pang strikes against her ribs as Ellana slowly uncurls, awkwardly and ungainly in a way Evelyn has never seen from her dragon before. The frills along Ellana’s head and neck open as Ellana rises up - a few precious seconds - before she overbalances and falls down with a sharp cry.

Evelyn is sprinting and then swimming through the water in an instant.

Ellana is still prone when Evelyn scrambles out of the water, hands unsure as they hover over scales she hasn’t touched in weeks. Ellana lets out a very quiet, very sad sounding warble and the Iron Bull’s silent rumbling above them does shakes Evelyn’s legs and knees where she’s knelt.

She abandons doubt and puts her hands on the scales she has loved and starts to run her hands up and down Ellana’s body - avoiding the tender scar tissue, for now.

“Shhh,” Evelyn says as Ellana struggles to right herself, “It’s okay, love. It’s okay. I’ve got you.  _We’ve_  got you, gillygirl. We’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”


	110. Chapter 110

“Surana,” Bull pushes the heavy wooden door to the sitting room open, “I think you know why I’m here so let’s just cut to it.”

The witch looks up at him from where she’s slouched on her chair, looking extremely unimpressed.

“I actually haven't the faintest idea unless you’ve come to give me the most wonderful news of a new target to practice on,” Surana says, eyebrow raising as she twists the end of her braid around her finger,  _“_ Are they Orlesian?”

Bull holds up a letter.

Surana gestures for him to give it to her, “I won’t bite. I have no taste for it recently. I think I’m getting dull.”

“Surana, I don’t think you know the meaning of the word,” Bull says, “I saw ten fresh bloodstains in your front hall on my way here. Where is everyone?”

Surana shrugs, “How would I know? I don’t pay mind to who comes in and out of my Keep.”

Bull supposes that if he were Witch Surana, most feared Witch in the lands of Ferelden and possibly all of Southern Thedas, he wouldn’t care who came in and out of his house, either.

Surana opens the letter, eyes stopping immediately on a particular phrase that must pop out to her.

“Did you read this?” She asks, voice low.

“Yes,” Bull answers because it’s not a good idea to lie to the  _most feared Witch in the Lands of Ferelden and definitely all of Southern Thedas_.

Surana narrows her eyes, sitting up out of her slouch, leaning forward on her desk and waving the letter in the air, “ _She sent Ellana Lavellan_. Listen to this -  _Surana, you have left me no choice. If you are reading this you have not undone this curse. I have sent the Iron Bull to collect Witch Ellana Lavellan of the Free Marches and bring her to you. It did not have to come to this_.”

Surana waves the letter.

“It didn’t have to come to this,” Surana mocks, “The impudence! Did you bring Ellana Lavellan of the Free Marches to  _my Keep_?”

Bull blinks, eyebrows raising, “Wait - she isn’t here already?”

Surana tenses, “How do you mean?”

“She broke off ahead of me and my party two days ago,” Bull says, “You mean those bloodstains weren’t you two duking it out?”

Surana’s lip curls over her teeth, “Dread Wolf, Andraste’s Flaming Sword, Lady of the Sky’s mercy and everyone in between -  _that woman is not here and I refuse to_ \- “

“Surana!” The doors behind Bull bang open and he turns to see Ellana standing here, staff faintly glowing as she takes in the room. “Oh! And the Iron Bulll. Hello! What took you?”

“Well, I can’t fly,” Bull says, “For one thing.”

“How incredibly cumbersome for you,” Ellana says, sounding incredibly sympathetic, “Could you move about two feet to your right? Please and thank you.”

Bull moves three just in case.

“Ellana,” Surana says, standing up and picking up her own staff, “I thought you’d gone to abandon civilization and live in the woods eating grass.”

She then mutters under her breath, “Or at least  _I’d hoped_.”

“Surana, I could never abandon civilization! I couldn’t abandon  _anyone!_ ” Ellana says, frowning, “Civilization and I are merely taking a nice break to consider whether our current relationship with the other is truly beneficial or just toxic.”

Surana groans.

“I’m here to have you undo the curse on Evelyn,” Ellanan says. “And also to visit the Dog Lord. Where is he?”

“Dog is probably digging up some bodies in my garden,” Surana says, “I’m sure he’ll appreciate your attentions.” She pauses, frowning, “Or did you mean Alistair?”

Ellana blinks, “Of course not. I meant Dog,  _obviously_. Why would I want to visit Alistair? No offense to your lover, Surana, but  _why_  would I travel all the way from the Free Marches for Alistair?”

“The one thing we ever agree on is Dog Lord,” Surana shakes her head, “The rest of the time you’re a terrifyingly adept annoyance.”

“I am not an annoyance, I’m an Ellana,” Lavellan refutes, “Undo your curse on Evelyn. Maxwell doesn’t deserve to die and we all know it. Don’t take it out on him.”

Surana frowns, “What curse?”

“The kissing curse,” Bull says, “The one where she and Maxwell die if she doesn’t kiss her true love within the year.”

Surana turns and looks between the Iron Bull, a familiar puzzled and incredulous look on her face.

“You mean she and Rutherford haven’t - ?”

“No,” Bull says.

“Nope,” Ellana confirms.

“Is he  _dead_?” Surana asks, “Because if he’s dead you could have just told me - that or I’m almost entirely sure that the curse would undo itself. I don’t go about cursing people with unsolvable curses. That’s just not playing fair. Granted, I do have a reputation for not playing fair, but still.”

“Alive and well,” Bull says. And this is so incredibly familiar. It’s almost like he’s had this conversation with everyone he’s come across this quest.

He has.

“Comatose? In a cursed sleep from another Witch? Abducted by some evil force?” Surana rattles off as Ellana shakes her head and makes general  _no_  gestures to each one. Bull doesn’t even need to talk for this bit. “Fighting in a new war that I somehow haven’t heard about? Taken away by some matter of state? Otherwise not available? Gravely ill? Transformed into some sort of animal and or object? No?  _Then what’s the problem_?”

“You seriously underestimated Evelyn and Cullen,” Ellana says, “Undo the curse.”

Surana just stares at Ellana in complete bafflement.

“You literally came all the way here,” Surana says slowly, “To get me to undo a curse that could just as easily be solved by getting the two of them to confess their feelings for each other and start courting and maybe kiss? I didn’t even specify  _where they had to kiss_. For fuck’s sake, it could be a kiss on the damn hand. Hair. Shoulder. Small finger. Knuckle. Forehead. Ear.”

“Well listen, Surana, if you think  _you_  couldn’t handle watching them awkwardly void the truth why should I have to directly involve myself in making them confront the truth?” Ellana flips her hair over her shoulder, “That is a Dorian problem. Or a Edric problem. Or a Sera problem.  _I_  am going to go find Dog Lord and tell him he’s a good boy and a wonderful familiar. Then the Iron Bull and I are leaving because apparently there’s a dragon just north of here and I think it’s going to be a most excellent way to top this adventure.”


	111. Chapter 111

“You know,” Lavellan begins, dragging out her syllables in a way that rings  _trouble_  in Bull’s head, “If you were to, hypothetically speaking, resume working as a super secret top national spy - but this time not for your country of birth -, I would,  _still hypothetically speaking,_  be one hundred percent behind you all the way. Hypothetically, in this hypothetical situation, my only request would be that you come home.”

Bull narrows his eye at her, slowly rotating his shoulder in one of the stretches he remembers from PT and grimacing a little when his body resists. He’s been behind.

“Is this because of the thing with the TV? That was four months ago. And for all we know that’s because of you.”

“It was  _not_  because of me!” Lavellan exclaims and then quickly lowers her voice, “But in all seriousness.”

“And hypothetical-ness.”

“That too,” Lavellan nods, “If you wanted to get back to it, I don’t want to hold you back. I mean, if it’s something you feel that you want or need to do.”

Want to do? Sort of, Bull admits to himself. Need to do? Incredibly debatable. The part of him that will always be freshly cut off from the Qun says of course he needs to do it. It’s what he was put together for. It was what they crafted, grafted, molded, and shaped him for. It is his  _purpose._

But the newer parts of him, the Lavellan and Cassandra and Dorian and Evelyn and Herah and Malika and Cullen and Sera and Varric and Krem and all the rest of them parts of him, shake him by the horns and scream  _no!_  It is not him. It’s his choice. It is always his choice. Even if the choice options are shitty, it’s still his choice. They tell him that he is more, more things. Not always better, not always worse. But  _other_. Expansive and beyond.

“Alright,” Bull nods, “I don’t think it’ll come to it, but I’ll keep that in mind. Should I be saying the same to you?’

“To me?” Lavellan blinks, pulling her hand out of the ice bucket to point at herself - bruises vivid and harsh looking on her knuckles, like dirt or stains, “Why me? I was never a super secret international spy.”

“No, I mean with the whole - criminal thing,” Bull says. He’s never asked her what got her in and out of jail and on so many short-lists, but he knows her. He figures it can’t be that bad. Or - bad in general. Ambiguous in most ways, most like. “If it’s something you think you still need to do.”

“Bull,” Lavellan sighs, the ice clinking as she flops her hand back in, “You’re a police officer, now.”

“Who better to overlook your crimes?” Bull teases and Lavellan laughs.

“No, I’m good. Thank you.” Lavellan smiles at him and leans back then yelps when the chair lets out a loud  _crack_  and falls apart, taking her down with it. She also brings down the bowl of ice - which clatters to the ground and Lavellan shrieks - “ _Cold!”_

Bull stands up and leans over the table to look and grimaces, “Ouch. Crotch shot.”

“I am  _freezing_ ,” Lavellan’s voice is high and shaking, “Why did it even break? It was perfectly fine earlier.”

“Maybe you hit the guy with it too many times,” Bull says.

“You sat on it! I figure that if it was going to break it’d break after you sat on it!”

Bull’s eyebrows raise, “One, sneaky and I appreciate it but also you weren’t going to warn me? Two, maybe it was a time and weight distribution thing.”

“Do you know how much I paid for these chairs? They’re a set of four, Bull,” Lavellan complains, just lying there, raising her hand to stare at her bruised knuckles forlornly. “Now it’s three. I can’t just buy one more chair. Creators, this is why we can’t have nice things.”

-

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Bull asks, flipping on the kitchen light switch in possibly one of the most cliche things he’s ever done in his life.

Lavellan is wide eyed like a deer in headlights. Well. One eye is. The other has an impressive shiner that he’s wondering how she was planning on explaining away in the morning. Or later today, actually. It’s about two.

Her eyes flick from side to side before she hunches her shoulders - “I’m pregnant?”

Bull snorts, “Alright. Who’s kid is it?”

Lavellan grimaces, “Um. I’m having an affair?”

“With?”

“Er. I’m in debt with the local mafia and I’m doing errands for them until I pay it off? Look, those chairs were custom and expensive.”

Bull raises an eyebrow. “I’m a little tempted to see how many of these you can come up with, but in the interest of speeding things along…”

He holds up a manilla envelope.

“Got this in the mail today while you were out on your girls trip,” Bull says, setting it down on the kitchen table. “Also we really have to complain about the delivery guy because he threw your package at the door again. Almost hit my face when I went to open it and tell him not to throw it. Our driveway isn’t even  _long_.”

“Fuck,” Lavellan says very quietly and with a lot of feeling. “Is my package okay? I mean - there wasn’t any glass this time, but still.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. You’re right, it’s a good clock. I set it up and tested it; it’s in our room already. Anyway,” Bull says, “You wanna open this?”

Lavellan sighs, “Can I get the first aide kit first?”

“Sure,” Bull nods, standing up, “I’ll get you some tea. Which one do you want?”

“Chamomile,” Lavellan says, voice sounding tired as she goes into the bathroom to fetch the med-kit under the sink, “You might want to pour yourself a cup, too.”

Bull debates putting a shot of whiskey or scotch then decides it’s probably not going to help at this point and leaves their drinks as is, waiting for the tea to steep as he watches Lavellan set the med-kit down on the kitchen table and start rummaging through it.

Bull reaches open, opens the freezer drawer and picks up an ice pack. He set it down on the table in front of her and goes to the linen closet to get her a hand towel to wrap it in.

He hears Lavellan swear softly and when he comes back she’s opened the envelope and is going through the grainy black and white pictures.

“I think,” Bull says, “I should probably be asking you why you were sent to prison, now.”

“That’s fair,” Lavellan nods, flips one of the photographs over and narrows her eyes at the official seal on the back. “Bull. Is there something  _you_  want to tell me?”

“I’m a super secret international spy again,” Bull says, “I work for Evelyn, now. I started a month ago and I’m on probation. I’m not on active assignment and it’s mostly training and paperwork and stuff. Same hours, for now. They want to see if I play nice. My pay match the ones from the police until I’m given the all clear which is why you didn’t notice.”

Lavellan sighs, “I’m a criminal again, this time bent on justice and retribution in that I’m trying to take down my old partner and mentor before he strikes again. That…might have been the blood in the bathroom the other morning.”

Bull blinks, “You said you had a really violent period.”

“I got lazy and didn’t feel like cleaning up that one particular part of the tile, besides Bull you know my period is really chill,” Lavellan rolls her eyes.


	112. Chapter 112

"Is that our new toaster?” Bull asks as he catches his breath, raising his arm to wipe sweat and blood off of his forehead.

Lavellan's shoulders rise and fall as she stares down at the probably dying body in between them on their garage floor. She looks up at him, and then at the toaster in her hands and swears, “Fuck. Yes. It is.  _My toast_. Ugh. You're paying for the replacement.”

“Me?” Bull asks, “Why me? I’m not the one who picked the toaster to use as a bludgeoning weapon in the room  _full of power equipment and hardware_.”

He gestures at the neat wall of tools - hammers, hand saws, screw drivers, a crowbar, so on and so on.

“Well for one thing you now have super secret international spy money. And also because this is definitely  _you_ ,” She says, examining the huge dent in the gleaming toaster’s side, “He’s Qunari. He’s definitely here for  _you_.”

“Unconfirmed,” Bull says, “I’ve been out of the game for  _years_. They wouldn’t just send an assassin after me  _now_. It doesn’t make sense and it’s not the Qun’s style. Besides, you’re the one with the criminal past. For all we know it’s  _you_  the Qun is after. Loose ends or something. Maybe they’re looking for you because you know someone who’s made their list. Or maybe  _you’re_  on the list and now that you’ve finally resurfaced they’re going after you.”

“No, no, I’ve never done anything to piss the Qun off,” Lavellan shakes her head, cradling the toaster in her arms before putting it down on her work table and picking up a roll of paper towels. She breaks off a few sheets and hands him the roll.

Bull takes it, gladly, and joins her in wiping off his face and hands.

“Now we have to get blood stains out of the garage floor,” Lavellan mourns as they both turn their attention back to the body lying where Lavellan’s car normally is. Where it would be if she hadn't volunteered it for Malika to use as her practice car for her driving lessons.

Almost twenty five and the kid still can’t drive a car. The Carta has failed her in every way.

“It’ll be fine, I know a guy,” Bull says, “Why was the toaster in the garage?”

“I wanted to check for bugs,” Lavellan says.

“Did you get a chance to check?” Bull asks, “Because if there  _are_  any bugs in there they just recorded us murdering a guy.”

“An assassin! Self defense!” Lavellan protests, “Also undoubtedly a criminal in his own right! Also, yes, I did get a chance to check and it was clean.”

“Why are you worried about bugs in the toaster?” Bull turns this over in his head, “Did you do this with  _all_  of the appliances?”

“Not  _all_  of them,” Lavellan says, “Just  _most_ of them. I mean - no point in putting something in the hot water dispenser. It’d get ruined by the heat and steam and water. Oh, don’t give me that look. Pot meet kettle. I know you’ve been checking the drywall and crawlspace and stuff.”

“Have not.”

“Have too - alright, technically you haven’t. You just had Rocky and Dalish do it for you. You underpaid Rocky, he found a dead raccoon under the house and he was  _traumatized_. I came home to find him sitting on the steps looking like he’d just gone through war. A strange war. Like - a war with nugs or frogs. And lost. ”

“That’s how he looks all the time, though.”

-

Lavellan groans, upper body flopped down on the bed, legs hanging off as she buries her face into the duvet.

“We can’t have nice things!” Lavellan screams into the duvet.

“Your legs will fall asleep,” Bull says, holding the tablet up to the wall as he applies color to their walls.

“We just painted it!” Lavellan says, rolling over and bringing the thick duvet with her before unrolling and sliding onto the floor.

“Yup,” Bull says, applying a new shade to the wall and humming in approval.

“You’re fine with it because you didn’t like the old color,” Lavellan says from the floor, glumly kicking at the foot of their bed. “I bet you led the fight into our bedroom on purpose. Mean.”

“A warm gray with a touch of lavender is calming to the senses and brings out the white of the furniture, it also compliments all of our accent pieces,” Bull says, tossing the tablet onto the bed and moving to sit down on the armchair by the window as Lavellan belly crawls her way around the room to his side. “I told you that before we painted.”

“And I told you that green is a calming color and it’s scientifically proven to enhance your mood and relaxation,” Lavellan says, hand flopping out to catch his foot. She doesn’t do anything once she’s caught it, she just lies there with her hand on his foot as she turns her head to stare at their new slashed up and dented wall. “Are you and Evelyn any closer to figuring out who’s targeting our house?”

“Nope,” Bull says, “You?”

“Not a clue,” Lavellan sighs.

“It’d probably go faster if we worked together,” Bull points out. “I’m not asking you to give away your contacts or anything.”

“I’m considering it because we can’t afford to keep renovating the house every single time we get attacked,” Lavellan says. “What should we do about the hallway floor?”

“We were planning on ripping up the flooring anyway,” Bull says, “We just couldn’t decide on what type of flooring at the time.”

“We are not going with dark cherry, it’s too glum. Plus, real wood warps and shrinks over time,” Lavellan says, smacking his foot with her palm, “We’re going with the white wash, it’ll open the house up especially with the natural lighting. downstairs.”

“White wash flooring is too much when you take into account the white kitchen and the white bathrooms,” Bull shakes his head, “I told you I’m willing to compromise, but not all the way to white wash.”

-


	113. Chapter 113

Leliana’s Quirk is a powerful thing, it pulls things out of you - hidden things, secret things, unknown things. At the sound of her voice and with her coaxing, she pulls those things out of you like slowly pulling a single strand of hair from a knot in a comb. it is the exact same feeling of someone untangling you from something. It is the feeling of someone pulling something out from where it was trapped between your teeth, or untangling a hard knot in your hair, or removing a splinter from your finger.

“Where are you, Ellana? Where are you when you dream? Are you with  _him_?” Leliana asks. They all watch from behind the glass window. Leliana had wanted to do this somewhere more private, somewhere more comfortable.

Cassandra and Cullen both insisted that if there was even the slightest possibility of the Dread Wolf coming into contact with his wayward Dream, it would be better if it was in a controlled setting.

Evelyn insisted on compromises. It's what she does, when she isn’t bowling people over with the sheer force of her will and vision for the future.

Ultimately, Evelyn’s vision for what the future could be is laughably simple and not very different from what it was  _before_. But perhaps what’s laughable is how low a bar she’s set for the world to meet, and how terribly the world has failed.

Bull leans his shoulder against the wall and watches the monitors Ellana is hooked up to, and their slow measured statistics.

He trusts his own senses a bit better. A person reads a person better than a machine could. In certain matters.

A  _Qunari_  built person reads a person even better in  _more_  matters.

Ellana’s eyes search underneath her closed eyelids, carefully held between awake and asleep by the calm lull of Leliana’s voice.

“I’m home,” Ellana's voice is quiet, confused, and most importantly  _longing_. “I am home.”

“When you dream you’re home?” Leliana asks.

“Yes,” Ellana says, “I am home, when I dream. I am back where I was born.”

Her voice turns sadder.

“Where I was born for a thousand nights. Where I died a thousand times for a thousand mornings.”

Dark shit, Bull things. It’s messed up and dark in every way. He was wiped clean and remade  _figuratively_.

Ellana Lavellan, the Dream turned Person, was unmade every morning and put back together every night. He wonders how many times she’s doubted the truth of herself.

Was she really the true Ellana Lavellan? The first one? The second one? When did Ellana Lavellan, and everything she has come to be, become  _real_? Is she just the hundredth or thousandth Dream-thing in Ellana Lavellan’s shape that stumbled upon  _realness_? Sentience?

A puzzle for another time, Bull thinks, focusing past his own reflection in the glass to watch Ellana’s still form.

“Can you describe it for me, Ellana? What is it like - what is home like?”

What’s inside of Fen’Harel's head and what can we use against him?

Ellana’s head turns a little, like she’s looking around.

“Green fields. The country.  _Rolling as far as you can see_. A horizonless world - it is all the country. It is all  _our_  country.”

“Our?”

Lavellan’s brows furrow, “Our?”

“Who’s country, Ellana?”

“Ours,” Lavellan repeats, slowly, “It’s  _ours_.”

“As in - yours and mine?”

“No,” Ellana says after a few moments of silence, the monitors - and Bull’s own ears - sensing a slight uptick in her pulse. Confusion, hesitance, the slightest touch of fear.

“No, it’s  _ours_ ,” Ellana says, repeating the word again. “Mine and - and  _theirs_.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re - “ Ellana’s heart rate spikes, now, all the monitors come alive and everyone begins to move.

“Bring her out of it,” Evelyn says into the microphone that connects the two rooms, “Bring her out of it now, before she brings something else in with her.”

“They’re  _like me_ ,” Ellana says softly, “It is  _our country_ , it is where  _we_  were born. All of us.”

“Is he there with you, Lavellan? Is the Wolf there with you?”

“No,” Ellana shakes her head, “He’s not here - not yet. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to wake up now. I  _do not want to be here_.”

Bull moves, opening the door to his side of the room to get to the other as the machines enter dangerous levels of spiking lines and flashing lights.

He yanks the door open to the other side of the repurposed interrogation room as Ellana’s body starts to shake, to seize.

“I want to wake up,” Ellana gasps and Bull holds her shoulders down before she falls or hurts herself _.”_

 _“You can wake up whenever you want to_ ,” Leliana says, fighting to keep her voice even as she takes Ellana’s hand in hers, clasping them together tightly before Ellana can accidentally lash out. “Ellana, you are safe here. You aren’t asleep. Open your eyes.”

“I want to wake up,” Ellana shudders, and then - firmly, loudly,  _powerfully - “_ I am awake.”

-

“So how does this work?” Evelyn asks, “Forgive the - ah. Well.”

Evelyn gestures to where Bull is holding his hand over Lavellan’s mouth.

Ellana waves her one hand, shrugging.

Evelyn nods at Bull who releases the pressure on Ellana’s jaw slowly. It’s just enough to hold her mouth closed, not to hurt her.

“I understand,” Ellana says, “I would be cautious, too. Solas used a muzzle. I like this better.”

Evelyn and Bull grimace.

“I am alright,” Ellana says, fingertips softly touching the back of the Iron Bull’s hand. Comfort, he thinks. Strange. “He taught me how to - to mitigate it. I can’t turn it off. He didn’t Dream me with an off-switch. Or an on-switch. It just  _always is_.”

“So how is that you haven’t irrevocably changed the world?” Evelyn asks. “Or - if you did, would we know?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t done anything major. I think the biggest thing I’ve ever done was take his dreaming from him,” Ellana says, “It helps to - to say things a certain way. Like? Like if I talk like this? You know - if I just? Make it into a question? It doesn’t count? Because I’m not  _saying_  things, I’m sort of -  _asking_  them? Or if I use words like  _probably_  or  _maybe_ , or  _In my opinion_ , and things like that - i’m not making statements, then. I’m sort of hedging. It doesn’t count then, I think. Because I’m negating it as fact and turning it into opinions or hypotheticals. I have to state it. Solidly. Like - like saying  _I am a woman_. Or  _the Iron Bull is Qunari_. Something solid, like that.”

And then softly, Ellana says -

“Something like -  _the Inquisition can keep me safe_.”


	114. Chapter 114

Maxwell looks up and his gaze is inevitably drawn to the bouncing sprite hopping up and down on a  _sleeping dragon’s tongue_.

“Andraste’s left tit,” Maxwell whimpers and Evelyn smacks him on reflex -

“Language - “

And then she sees what her familiar is doing and lets out a strangled cry, “ _Mahanon, stop that right now_.”

Mahanon looks directly at them, and purposefully, meaningfully,  _spitefully_  just jumps that much harder, dark little eyes daring them to do something. Anything.

“How is he like this?” Maxwell moans as they quickly hide behind a large rock. He casts a look around for his own sprite and sees Ellana’s flickering glimmer perched at the tip of the dragon’s horn. He squints and she looks like she's just sitting, staring wistfully off into the distance.

Evelyn, from behind the rock, is making a series of gestures possibly meant to inspire, bribe, threaten, or possibly even  _command_  Mahanon to return to her.

“I can’t believe Rutherford and Leliana and all the rest expect you to command armies and such. You can’t even control your own sprite familiar,” Maxwell groans, “And he's going to get us all killed.”

“You’re one to talk,” Evelyn snaps, distracted by the impending death of both themselves and their sprites, “At least mine doesn’t want to abscond with another man.”

“She won’t,” Maxwell says, “I mean, I’m pretty sure Ellana would choose me over the Iron Bull. Probably.”

The thing is, Maxwell is  _used_  to Ellana’s fancies. The first time they met Commander Cousland and her familiar, Surana, Ellana had attempted to follow the pair around for  _weeks_. Cousland’s sprite got irritated by it and sent Ellana packing back to Maxwell. Maxwell is entirely certain that Ellana is not dissuaded by this, nor has the charm and appeal of the charismatic Cousland and her mysterious sprite faded at all in Ellana’s mind. In fact, Ellana would most likely be following after them and mooning from afar if it weren’t for the fact that Commander Cousland has an amazing ability to just disappear off the face of Thedas without any track or trail.

The second time Ellana was ever hit so hard by such a feeling, Maxwell had barely been able to grab her and stuff her down his shirt, pressing his palm hard against her to keep her pinned there before making hurried excuses and  _running_. Not walking quickly, not jogging, not striding away - but  _a full on run at top speed until his lungs, legs, and sides hurt_. Ellana was sore at him for weeks afterwards. But by Andraste’s flaming sword, Maxwell isn’t going to lose his sprite to the chaos of  _Kirkwall_.

When Ellana first catches sight of the Iron Bull, Maxwell recognizes the look in her gleaming eyes and grabs her before she can even move. And he runs into the woods to explain to her exactly  _why_  she can’t do what he  _knows_  she’s about to do.

The thing about Ellana and Mahanon is that they’re sprites. They’re damn good sprites. They’re loyal and true and perfectly suited to Maxwell and Evelyn. They’re everything sprite-familiars should be.

The problem with Ellana and Mahanon is that Maxwell and Evelyn weren’t thinking very much when they made them.

Sprites are supposed to be made during a huge coming of age ceremony. They’re a big step in a person’s life, a new stage. They’re this momentous undertaking. A rite of passage.

And Evelyn and Maxwell, at the tender age of six - Evelyn, shy, and Maxwell, curious, both of them equally impatient with the words  _when you’re old enough_  - decided to make their sprites by themselves. The problem with this is that at six you don’t really know much about the world or yourself. Generally, the things you are completely fascinated with at six aren’t always a sure bet for what you’ll be fascinated with at thirty.

At six, Evelyn was obsessed with living in the wild forests around Ostwick, and had made Mahanon out of various foliage and soil and a couple of animal bones, bird feathers, and a few teeth. Maxwell, at six, was obsessed with alchemy and made Ellana using some potions he’d grabbed from  _people_  and some odd looking stones he’d found in  _places he shouldn’t be_.

This, at the age of six, seems quite dandy.

At thirty three, it is a train wreck. Mahanon is a wild thing with a wild heart and wild eyes, and Ellana is a flickering and ever changing coalescence of vagueness.

Most people theorize that Mahanon and Ellana doesn’t listen to Evelyn and Maxwell because they were made when they were  _six_  and they have the mentality of children, that the sprites still think their purpose is the same as twenty four years ago.

Evelyn and Maxwell know better. Their sprites have aged with them in their own ways. And while Evelyn isn’t so keen on living in the wild and Maxwell isn't as besotted with alchemy, their familiars are inexplicably and wonderfully still loved and beloved with all their heart.

Which is why neither of them have ever considered dispelling Mahanon and Ellana. Ever. And that is also why at the end of the day, Mahanon will fly - small sharp little bone-claws first - out at whatever even  _breathes_  at Evelyn wrong, and why Ellana will wander back to Maxwell’s side to chirp and gleam and coo in the curve of his neck while spitting acid at whoever gives him grief.

All of this said.

“He’s going to be eaten,” Evelyn mourns, giving up on getting Mahanon to leave the dragon’s mouth.

This is the last time they’re ever sending their sprites ahead. Even if Mahanon and Ellana have truly uncanny knacks for finding hidden passages.

When they were about nine or ten, Mahanon and Ellana would disappear for hours on end. Eventually they found out that the two had figured out a way into the Trevelyan mausoleum where the ashes of their relatives are interred. Mahanon had taken to scratching scribes into the old wood and scattering the offerings while pretending he was a swordsman of some sort, using a stick to fence a broken statue.

Ellana had been practicing spitting acid at pieces of rock and using said acid to draw into the stone.

Evelyn and Maxwell have kept that particular family secret for over twenty years and they’re incredibly lucky that no one important to the family has died since, otherwise they’d both be disowned.

Well, Maxwell would. He’s not the Inquisitor of Thedas.

“As if anything could eat Mahanon and  _live_ ,” Maxwell snorts, “I’d pay money for that. In fact - we could charge admission and it would pay off our funeral fees.”

Maxwell and Evelyn flinch, yelping when the dragon - of course - wakes up and snaps its jaws shut.

Mahanon lets out an almighty outraged screech from inside the dragons mouth.

“How does something so  _small_  have such  _volume_?” Maxwell marvels, pulling his shield off his back. “Ellana!”

He calls out and Ellana, after a moment or two of remaining perched on the dragon’s horn - still perfectly balanced - drops off, entering a lazy spiral and a half before darting over to him.

“Mahanon!” Evelyn cries out in dismay.

The dragon’s face can only be described as confounded and angry as it spits out fire and an incredibly irritated Mahanon. The dragon roars, rearing up, wings opening and fire sparking in its mouth.

Mahanon lands with a loud  _thump!_  in the sand, scrambling up and looking between the dragon and Evelyn. Mahanon must decide on protecting Evelyn - in his own way - rather than fighting the dragon that just insulted him by trying to eat him.

Maxwell will never know how Mahanon’s little mind works.

Mahanon dashes over to them, jumping up onto Evelyn’s leg and clambering up towards her face.

Evelyn shudders, “Dragon spit.”

“We can be grossed out later,” Maxwell says, shoving her into motion, “Dragon first! Do you think the others heard that?”

“Probably, I mean - that’s not subtle, Max,” Evelyn says.

Ellana, flickering in the peripheral of Maxwell’s vision, lights up like a firework.

“Yes, yes, that means the Iron Bull is coming,” Maxwell says, “Think you can focus on helping me stay alive so you can see him, Ellana? Since he’s your new favorite person and all even though  _I’m the one you need to stay alive?_ ”


	115. Chapter 115

“Oh, this is so exciting,” Lavellan marvels, hands clasped together as she walks through the incredibly decrepit hallways. Each one complete with molding and rotted tapestries, rusty and dangerous looking iron chandeliers, broken furniture, and multiple ominous stains. “We have a  _base_  in the mountains! We’re like a  _real_  gang now!”

“We’re not a gang,” Cassandra says at the same time Leliana says, “We’re  _organized crime_ , Inquisitor, which is a step up from a gang.”

Cassandra presses her knuckles to her forehead and starts her breathing exercises. She’s not doing them right, but Bull’s not going to tell her that.

Lavellan’s eyes gleam as she runs and vaults over a giant collapsed door.

“We have a hideout! That’s not underground!” Lavellan waves her arms in the air, “I can feel light! Wind! Air! Dirt! The taste of mold!”

“The last one isn’t anything to be happy about,” Bull points out, “You sure you don’t want a mask? Just in case?”

“No one else is wearing a mask.”

Bull doesn’t point out that the rest of them are disposable and replaceable. Lavellan, newly minted Inquisitor of the reformed Inquisition syndicate, is  _not_.

Lavellan flounces off to explore a room connected to the hall. Bull moves into a light jog to catch up with her and to make sure she isn’t offed by a squatter or something. There  _was_  a really wicked looking possum in the cellar that almost clawed Sera’s face off when she was helping install the electric.

Apparently things like that - according to Lavellan - build character and add  _spice_  to a place.

“I’ve found a secret cache!” Lavellan calls out as Bull turns into the room. He inwardly sighs when she holds up porn magazines, “Look! I wonder how old these are. You think we could make money off of them? They’re like antiques, aren’t they? They must be ancient, Bull. As old as you, maybe.”

“Put those down,” Bull says, pulling hand sanitizer out of his pocket - a handy thing to have when you’re exploring a castle with a grabby Inquisitor who lives up to the namesake - and gesturing for her to give him her hands, “I really don’t want to know what’s been on that shit. I do know, but I’d rather not.”

Lavellan laughs, tossing the porn mags onto the ground where they land with a large dust cloud, and holds her hands out to him, “We have a home.”

Her eyes gleam as she bounces up and down on the balls of her feet.

“Bull, we have a  _home!_ ” She breathes out - it is not the first time she’s said it, and it is not the first time she’s said it to him in that tone of voice. That specific tone of voice that suggests  _we_  means something more than  _we_  and home means something bigger than  _home_. It is a tone of voice that she uses on everyone and somehow makes seem like she’s  _exclusive_  about it.

She’s going to be great at this job, Bull thinks as he squirts some clear sanitizer into her hands and has her rub it into her skin. She’s going to be an amazing Boss.

The Imperium and the Red Templars and everyone in between wont know what hit them.

-

“What’s wrong?” Bull asks, pulling out a chair next to Lavellan as she taps her pen on the table restlessly. Her notebook is covered in scribbles. He’ snot sure if she wrote something and then scratched it out or if she’s just making random marks.

“Are we a family?” Lavellan asks and Bull immediately turns to look for someone better emotionally equipped to handle this.

Varric, the little piss, sitting on Lavellan’s other side just starts laughing. Varric is obviously _not_  who Bull is looking for in this situation. He is better emotionally equipped but he’s also a bullshitting fucker and Bull doesn’t trust him with those kind of philosophical answers that could deeply impact the psyche of their Boss.

“Like the Hawke family is definitely a family,” Lavellan says, moving from tapping the pen on the table to chewing not he cap, “And the Gray Wardens are  _kind of_  a family in a way. Also, there’s the Cousland Family and the Cadash family. But does the Inquisition count as a Family? Vivienne says that only Families have big staying power, the rest of the groups fall apart too easily and take forever to get stable.”

“The Hawke Family is a  _family_  for sure,” Varric says, “But that’s a whole ‘nother story. That’s  _Kirkwall_. The Hawke Family is the backbone of Kirkwall and everything Kirkwall is.”

“The Wardens are little families that come together as one big family,” Bull says, relaxing now that he knows Lavellan just means  _family_  in the criminal underworld sense. “They’ve got outsiders, yeah, but each of them get sworn in and they cast aside all previous ties and bonds. So it’s an artificial, but definite family.”

“I hear the Commander of the Ferelden Branch has been recruiting big for her side,” Varric says. “By big I mean  _selective_. The Ferelden branch’s never been big, but after the that fifth round with the Darkspawn? They were almost wiped out.”

“Look, if I weren’t Qun I’d join up under her in a heartbeat,” Bull says.

The Ferelden Commander of the Gray Wardens is  _legendary_. She crushed the Darkspawn’s attempt at a massive overthrow and power shift in under a year. And she was a new recruit. It’s no fucking wonder she was shot up straight to Commander. Never was even an enforcer or cappo.

“But is the  _Inquisition_  a family?” Lavellan asks. “Will we last? Will we  _stay_?”

“That,” Bull says, exchanging a glance with Varric, “Is completely out of our hands.”

Lavellan is obviously unsatisfied with this answer.

“Well,” Varric says, nudging her with his elbow, “I’m not going anywhere, kid. So I guess  _I’m_  staying. I don’t know if that means the Inquisition is staying around, though.”

“Well, if Varric stays Cassandra will stay out of spite, and if Cassandra stays Leliana and Cullen will probably stick around out of their civic duty to keep her in line and to stop her from bringing down the righteous fury of the Andrastian Chantry onto the world,” Bull muses, scratching his jaw as he leans on the table. “And if Leliana stays I’m betting Josephine will stay. I figure that’s about half the important people in the Inquisition right there, if not the most.”

Varric laughs, “Who knew I was so important to the Inquisition?”

“And I’d stay,” Bull says, “I mean, the Chargers would stay. As long as the pay is good.”

Lavellan smiles up at him. Like she knows the last part is a lie.

Bull would stay here forever if the Qun would let him. He’d sat with  _her_  forever.

“So yeah, I guess you’ve got a family,” Varric says when Bull can’t continue. Lavellan’s smile grows tenfold.

“What a beautiful family,” Lavellan says. And this time he knows she means it the way he thought she meant it the first time. “ _My_  family.”


	116. Chapter 116

“Kill him, he's a traitor.”

“ _No_ , don't kill him, that’s not something we do.”

Lavellan’s eyes ping back and forth between Leliana and Sera. She turns to Cullen who holds his hand up to her.

“I defer my opinion in this matter to Leliana, who I believe, is better suited to advise you on this situation.”

“You can’t  _defer_  your opinion,” Lavellan says, “You can’t just  _let someone else_  have an opinion  _for you_. That’s a herd mentality and I, for one, do not support such things in consideration to  _possibly killing someone_. Cullen.  _Your advice, please_.”

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose, the dark circles under his eyes ever the more present. Bull feels for him, really. It must be hard turning into the main guy responsible for a crime syndicate’s operations from being a Templar.

“Personally I don’t like the idea of killing a traitor instead of putting them in prison, but this isn’t the Chantry and we don’t have the resources to perpetually hold a traitor in confinement of any sort,” Cullen says, “With lack of a better option - killing him seems to be the best solution we have on the table.”

“But Mariner  _isn’t_  a traitor,” Lavellan protests.

“Mariner took Inquisition intelligence and movements and gave it to our enemies,” Leliana says, “He broke  _trust_.”

“I think you’re invested because he was one of  _yours_ ,” Sera says, “Don’t kill him. We aren’t like that here. Andraste’s fucking tits, we’re supposed to be  _better_.”

“Fine, torture him and send him back to the people he was reporting to as a message,” Leliana says.

Lavellan turns to Dorian, who looks just as baffled as she is.

“Don’t look at  _me,”_ He says, waving his hands to absolve himself of this situation, “In Tevinter there wouldn’t even be a discussion. You’d just have a dead body.”

Lavellan turns to Bull, and he just shrugs at her. “Pass.”

Bull, personally, thinks that they should make an example. But he’s not here to advise her on anything that isn’t Qun related. He’s just here to make sure she doesn’t die.

“He’s Qunari, Lavellan,” Solas says before Lavellan can argue against him passing. “He doesn’t have opinions.”

“That is incredibly rude of you,” Lavellan says, turning to give Solas a disappointed look which the man ignores. “And  _your_  opinion, hahren?”

“Make an example that the Inquisition is not to be trifled with,” Solas answers without hesitation, “You are sitting at the helm of an untried, untested, incredibly new and uncertain syndicate. Do not let anyone prove you soft. With goals like ours, we cannot afford to look weak.”

Lavellan frowns, “But what if he was being extorted? Is that the right word? Extorted?”

Bull doesn’t know if he’s a little sad or a little awed by that kind of determination to see good in someone else who’s clearly proven themselves not worth it. Lavellan’s particular gift, perhaps.

Or just the gift of youth? Inexperience?

Lavellan does not yet know that sometimes there are people who don’t have a reason to be shitty. They just  _are._

 _“Make an example_ ,” Leliana insists.

“Don’t sink that level,” Sera says.

Lavellan frowns, and Bull watches the gears working in her head.

And then she smiles, sitting up straighter - “We kill them all!”

Silence.

Josephine, who’s been silent taking minutes, starts to cough. Bull firmly pats her on the back a few times until she’s recovered.

Everyone else glances at each other, not sure they heard right.

“We  _what_?” Dorian asks, staring at the woman sitting next to him like she’s just suggested they strip off their clothes and jump off of a bridge into the frozen waterways by the wharf.

“We kill all of the people Mariner was leaking information to,” Lavellan replies, “That way Mariner won’t have anyone to betray us for, there won’t be anyone to force Mariner to betray us, and Mariner will come back to working for  _us_.”

Lavellan beams, pleased with her solution.

“Well,” Leliana looks stunned, more surprised than Bull has ever seen her look. It takes a lot to take the Nightingale and Left Hand of the Divine by surprise. “That was - a creative solution I hadn’t thought about.”

Sera mouths  _kill them all_? Turning to Cullen and Solas for verification that she heard right. Sera then puts her head in her hands, apparently analyzing all of her life choices up until now.

It’s impressive and creative thinking, if somewhat skewed, Bull will admit.

“It  _does_  make an example,” Bull points out. Not exactly the example of  _don’t betray the Inquisition_ in the same sense everyone else was going for with  _kill the traitor_.

He thinks that it would make anyone else currently in the Inquisition think twice about fucking things up for them. And it would, in a sense, get rid of their information leak. Also Mariner might even spread word that Lavellan is a hard-ass in unimaginable ways which would be incredibly beneficial to their image.

The dissonance of Lavellan sitting at this table with several papers and photographs of hits, drops, and targets spread out over it wearing a T-shirt with a truly hideous drooling pug on it, and proclaiming  _kill them all_  as a solution is a kind of unsettling that Bull is almost completely certain will boost their image.

Solas hums, eyebrows high on his face, “An… interesting solution, Inquisitor.”

“Overkill,” Sera says.

Cullen’s face moves from bewildered and horrified to stunned acceptance - Bull supposes that the man has some history handling outrageous requests, considering his line of employment and his previous superior officers - to already planning the manpower and schematics behind Lavellan’s proclamation.

What a loyal Commander she’s got.

Lavellan pats the table with her hands in an off-beat rhythm, wiggling from side to side, incredibly pleased with herself for solving this problem. “Alright, next on our agenda?”

Josephine clears her throat, voice wavering before steadying as she reads out - “After handling the matter of the high profile traitor, Mariner, and how to deal with the information Mariner has leaked to other groups, the next matter at hand is. Ah. The next matter at hand is how to deal with the increased infighting among our squadrons. The Iron Bull, please pass out these complaints and messages Leliana and Cullen compiled. Thank you.”


	117. Chapter 117

“Now that we're all seated, is there anything you’d like to tell me? Bull? Ellana?” Evelyn asks as they all settle in around the dining table.

Ellana and Bull glance at each other, puzzled, before making comments along the lines of  _no_  and  _nothing_.

Evelyn knew it wasn't going to be easy and honestly, expecting them to answer outright without any pushing would have been in the realms of the miraculous.

“There was a body found in your pond,” Evelyn says.

Ellana looks at Bull, confused. Bull frowns, settling in for what Evelyn is sure is going to be a fantastic round of deflecting.

“By pond, do you happen to mean the giant hole in our back yard that Ellana made because she’s decided she’s going to learn how to become a plumber?” Bull asks and Ellana scowls fiercely. “She’s doing great by the way.”

Ellana, placated, starts tearing up a piece of bread.

“Yes, that body,” Cullen confirms.

“I reported it to the police, relax,” Bull shrugs, passing the salad bowl over to Leliana at his left. Cole passes by him and grabs a handful of lettuce before dropping to the floor and - presumably - crawling back around the table into Evelyn’s living room to feed Leliana’s nugs. “Home burglary gone wrong. Weird how he ended up drowning in the hole, but hey - remember the last guy who tried robbing Kaaras? Hung at the top of a flagpole by his underwear. No one was even  _home_.”

Herah snorts, “Little brother has all the luck, pass the stuffed peppers.”

Maxwell, at Evelyn’s left, passes the stuffed peppers to Evelyn, who passes them to Cullen, who passes them to Herah.

“I know you reported it to the police, because the police reported it to  _me_ ,” Evelyn replies calmly. “Because the amount of times your home has been targeted is incredibly concerning to all of us, I had police activity for your zip code flagged.”

“Evelyn, you’ve been  _monitoring us_?” Ellana looks incredibly betrayed.

Evelyn and Cullen glance at each other. Cullen looks rueful because they both know this is going to go so terribly.

“Yes, and can you explain why the man who  _drowned_  in your back yard has injuries matching being strangled to death after sustaining several blows to the head and kidneys?” Evelyn asks.

Ellana and Bull, for the first time, realize the cunning trap Evelyn has set here.

Herah and Josephine sit directly in front of Ellana and Bull. It’s hard to lie to their faces. What’s more, Maxwell is on Ellana’s right and Leliana is on Bull’s left. Cassandra and Varric are sitting next to Leliana and are blocking the clearest route to the front door.

Evelyn and Cullen are blocking the path to the kitchen at the head of the table.

Leliana blocks breaking out through the dining room window.

Dorian and Vivienne would be truly impressed by this set up if they were here to see it. It’s a shame that they’re both at their annual math convention. Evelyn takes a moment to hope Dorian remembers to take notes - that are legible and understandable to  _regular people who aren’t Dorian_  - on the lecture on divine numbers and geometry for her like she asked.

Ellana and Bull slowly relax into their seats. Ellana sighs. Bull looks like he’s bracing himself.

“I’m having an affair,” Ellana says at the same time Bull says the same.

Evelyn raises a single unimpressed eyebrow.

Ellana glowers at Bull and he calmly changes his answer to, “Ellana is having an affair.”

“Lie,” Cole says from the living room.

Ellana turns her glare to Cole’s general direction.

She can’t believe that this is the best they can come up with.

“Is that so?” Leliana raises a single, slender, eyebrow, “How fascinating.”

“Is this ignoring how the two of you are in an open relationship and that Ellana would sooner run off a cliff into boiling lava than have sexual relations with anything?” Herah muses.

Everyone at the table watches the couple who continue to maintain their composure in the face of their bald faced lie being shredded in a single sentence.

“I’m pregnant.”

“She’s pregnant.”

They say this at the same time.

“Lie,” Cole says.

“Oh for - “ Ellana throws her hands up in the air, “Why are you like this? Who made you this way?”

“You did.” Cole answers immediately, and somewhat confusedly.

“Why do you have to listen to me, Cole? Why can’t you rebel and disobey and be naughty and not pay attention to authority figures?”

“Really? You’re pregnant?” Cassandra drawls, “How far along?”

“Who’s the father? Immaculate birth?” Maxwell asks, cheerfully taking some corn and handing Evelyn the bowl. “Congratulations. When’s the little bundle of joy due?”

Bull wordlessly twists around in his chair and picks up a bottle of whiskey from Evelyn’s row of neatly arranged liquors and glasses. He wordlessly opens it, pours himself some, takes a drink, and then hands the glass to Lavellan. Lavellan also takes a drink, sets the glass down and closes her eyes, exhaling with a loud  _whoosh_.

Bull puts his hand on the table. Lavellan laces their fingers together.

Evelyn is very proud of them for coming clean and knowing when to admit defeat.

“I owe money to the local mafia,” Lavellan says quietly, face turned away and voice laden with shame.

Everyone at the table lets out a collective groan just as Cole says -

“Truth.”

At the same time Varric says -

“ _I am not the local mafia_.”

Heads turn between Varric, Bull, and Ellana.

“Wait you weren’t lying about that?” Bull’s eyebrows raise up, “ _We owe Varric money_?”

“You’re a  _loan shark now_?” Cassandra rounds onto Varric.

“You were in financial trouble?” Josephine asks Lavellan, concern pouring into her voice.

Evelyn can’t believe how fast she’s lost control of this situation. Leave it to Lavellan to completely overthrow an investigation about a  _dead body_  into a conversation about owed money.

“I told you! They were custom chairs! Very expensive! I needed to commission someone to make a replacement. We can’t just have  _three chairs_. Besides - do you know how expensive chairs built to hold a fully grown Qunari man of your size are, Bull?  _Do you?_ ”

“ _They’re just chairs! I’ll build you one myself!_ ”

“They aren’t  _just chairs_ , they’re  _nice custom made chairs! We need nice things to pass on to our grandchildren, Bull!”_

 _“_ Wait, I thought you being pregnant was a lie?” Maxwell blinks.

Lavellan rounds onto him, “Are you telling me that out of all the people here not one of you is going to name me the godmother to their children?”

Lavellan sniffles loudly, eyes welling up with tears.

“I am  _hurt_ , Maxwell. I am  _so hurt_. In fact, I am so hurt that I can’t look at any of you right now. I’m leaving - “

Maxwell quickly grabs the back of her shirt and sits her back down, “Nice try.”

“You had to ask  _Varric_  for money?” Bull groans putting his head in his hand, “Of  _all the people_  - “

“Are you implying that there’s something wrong with borrowing money from me, Tiny? I’m very hurt.”

“I agree with Bull, I would rather chew my own arm off with my teeth than owe you anything,” Cassandra says.”

“Point to Bull and Pentaghast,” Herah nods.

“Seriously, why are you all so against owing me money? When have I ever been anything but good and fair to any of you?” Varric asks.

“Well who else am I supposed to ask for money, Bull?” Lavellan waves her hand, crocodile tears spirited away to whichever realm they came from. “Dorian  _luxury on a budget_  Pavus? Maxwell  _disowned_  Trevelyan? Evelyn  _frugality with every breath_  Trevelyan-Rutherford? Cullen  _humility and humble simplicity_ Rutherford? Herah  _minimalism is the one true path_  Adaar?”

“I can’t believe this is about chairs,” Varric says, “You needed that much money for chairs? I thought you were kidding.”

“Why, what did she tell you?” Cullen asks.

“That she needed to replace a broken chair, but I thought that was a joke. She said Tiny sat on it.”

“True,” Cole, Bull, and Lavellan say at once.

“And then she sat on it.”

“True,” The three agree.

Varric hesitates, “Well, she said she sat on him while he was sitting on the chair and - you know?”

“You told him  _what_?” Bull turns to Lavellan, absolutely confounded.

“Well sometimes I do,” Lavellan says, “I mean. Once. We had those chairs for like -  _three days_. And I did sit on your lap that one time for like two minutes because I wanted a cuddle and you refused to move to the sitting room.”

“And  _you believed her_?” Leliana’s eyebrows are raised as she takes the whiskey from Bull and starts pouring herself some.

“No, but look - I know better than to ask  _why_  when it comes to Ellana Lavellan. I figured it was the least bullshit lie she was going to give me.”

“Rude,” Lavellan sniffs, “I don’t  _lie_  about my woodwork, Varric. I am  _very_  serious about wood crafts.”

“Can we go back to talking about the dead body yet?” Evelyn asks.

“No, I want to know exactly how much money we’re talking about here,” Bull says. “I will cut down a tree in our own  _yard_. I will  _build it for you_.”

“It’s  _not the same!_  Maxwell, Leliana, Josephine,  _help me explain why it isn't the same.”_

 _“_ Next time,” Cullen says, taking Evelyn’s hand underneath the table. “We’ll get them next time. Maybe after dessert?”


	118. Chapter 118

“I like your rack,” Lavellan says.

In the not so far distance, Bull immediately hears Sera start  _screaming_  with laughter. Blackwall, Varric, and Dorian aren’t too far behind her in this.

“Thanks, I grew it myself,” Bull says, wary as Lavellan looks up at him with large, delighted and innocuous eyes.

“So did I!” Lavellan replies and he rears back a little when Lavellan reaches up. “Sorry - can I touch? You can touch mine, if you want.”

“Knock it off,” Bull turns and yells in the general direction of his peanut gallery. At least Krem and Rocky aren’t here. He actually bunks with them. He’d never hear the damned end of it. Flames.

Lavellan continues to hold her hand up, waiting, and generally just pleased to be alive in the way that most Sylvari are. They’re just always so -  _happy_. Bull finds it hard to begrudge them anything. There’s a certain kind of  _softness_  and  _newness_  to them. You want to be kind to them. You want to be soft to them, too.

Bull lowers his head, and then thinking about it, kneels, “I’d say knock yourself out, but there’s a real danger that you might do that on accident and I wouldn’t want to risk it.”

Lavellan ignores him in favor of  _ooh-ing_  and  _ah-ing_  over his horns, her hands quickly running over their grooves and the worn down points and the sharper, rougher edges from where he’s chipped or scraped them against something recently. Her fingers carefully slide over where horn meets head, fingers gentle as they comb over fur.

It’s actually incredibly soothing, honestly.

Bull gives her a warning growl when her fingers stray too close to knocking his eyepatch off and her hands immediately back off.

“Oops,” Lavellan says.

“No problem, just be careful up there,” Bull says, ear flicking as Lavellan walks around him to inspect his horns from a different angle. “Is it really that interesting?”

“No Charr’s horns match that of another’s, they’re like fingerprints,” Lavellan replies. “This is your fingerprint. Or paw-print. Claw-print?”

“Fingerprint is fine.”

“It’s like us Sylvari. Sometimes we might  _grow_  looking the same but in the dark, in the shadows - you can see our patterns and we’re all different.”

-

Lavellan perks up immediately once she sees him, eyes brightening - the leaves and flowers of her hair actually  _literally perking upwards_  and the glow of her skin brightening - as she shuffles over to him, mouth breaking into a smile.

Bull gestures for her to be quiet and she nods, miming closing her mouth shut.

He makes quick work of the lock, and then gestures for her to climb onto his back and into his pack. He’s a big guy. She’s a small woman. She’ll fit.

Lavellan lets out a small hiss of dissatisfaction and he thinks she might have nicked herself on something on accident. Bull waits for her to settle in and then passes a bit of cloth over his shoulder. He feels Lavellan messing with it and when he casts a quick glance over his shoulder she’s used it to cover the distinctive foliage of her hair.

Good girl.

Bull stands and starts to make his way out of Fort Trinity’s basement level.

He doesn’t even make it to the gates before Herah starts walking next to him, the sleek polished black of her horns a glimmering threat that makes Bull sigh and stop walking.

“Did you really think you’d smuggle Lavellan out of Fort Trinity?” Herah asks, tugging at his pack, “You need help out, sweet?”

“No,” Lavellan answers when Bull gives a slow flex of his back to let her know that  _yeah_ , they aren’t bluffing out of this one. “I’ve got it.”

She does not, actually “got it”.

Bull turns to let Herah untangle Lavellan.

There’s a little  _oop_  noise as Herah lifts Lavellan out of Bull’s pack and sets her down between them, claw firmly placed on Lavellan’s shoulder.

“You’re grounded, remember?” Herah says.

“Well that’s incredibly unfair of you all to ground me without letting me make an appeal,” Lavellan says in response.

“You  _are_  my favorite,” Herah muses, petting Lavellan’s hair, “But rules are rules. You’re grounded. I won’t tell Evelyn about you trying to sneak out this time. But stay in the storeroom next to the labs, finish your time, and then you can go do whatever it is your little heart desires to make the rest of  _our_  hearts fail that much faster.”

Lavellan  _pouts_.

“I tried,” Bull says, squeezing the back of Lavellan’s neck and gently pushing her off with Herah. “See you in two days, Lavellan.”

“But what if I  _don’t last two days_ ,” Lavellan whines, “What if this is the last you ever see of me? Then you’d be sorry! It’s too beautiful a day to be stuck in the storeroom doing cataloguing, Herah. Oh please, please let me do my punishment above deck. And it’s terribly lonely in the storeroom, you don’t even let Cole come by anymore.”

“That’s because you weren’t doing your duties when Cole was about,”  Herah says. “And stop coaxing the Iron Bull into helping you be naughty. He has such a soft spot for you, I swear he’s getting old. I can’t believe he hasn’t been retired.”

“Talk with some respect, cub,” Bull calls at Herahs’ back.

“Why, have you done anything to earn it recently besides being a total soft-hearted fool?” Herah calls back and then -

“No, we aren’t fighting. That’s just how we talk to each other. It means we like each other,” Herah says to Lavellan who looks over her shoulder to give Bull a concerned glance. Bull waves at her as the two women descend into the Fort’s basement level.

“I can’t believe,” Maxwell says, breaking off from a group of passing Vigil soldiers who were walking through towards the submarine deployment dock, “That you are actually one of the most hard-ass Ash legion spies. Herah is right, you are soft.”

“Hard enough to knock you on your ass, Trevelyan,” Bull replies, “Keep walking. As if you haven’t been sneaking her sugar cookies and strawberry pies. You broke within the first hour.”

“I never said  _I_  wasn’t soft,” Maxwell says, laughing as he dodges Bull’s swipe, “It’s quite charming how you pretend you aren’t, though.”


	119. Chapter 119

“At some point,” Evelyn says as Lavellan stretches up on the tips of her toes to try and reach Bull’s face, “One of you is going to crack and tell me what the hell is going on here.”

“We were redoing the stairs and Bull took a fall,” Lavellan says.

“Took a fall,” Bull slurs out, somehow remaining remarkably steady on his feet. He should, definitely, not be standing. For both the reason that he has a lump the size of an egg on his head, and the fact that it’s probably not good for him to be standing right now. “Stairs were involved. Yeah. Lots of stairs. Really fast moving stairs.”

“By moving stairs do you happen to mean an escalator?” Evelyn can  _hear_  Cullen’s incredulity. “Are you installing an escalator in your  _house_?”

“No, to him it felt like they were moving fast because he was falling down them,” Lavellan is quick to recover for them both.

“Right, and what happened to  _you_?” Evelyn asks, dreading the answer because after dinner a month and a half ago she never did get a straight answer concerning the body in Lavellan’s make-shift plumbing experiment.

Evelyn is having a harder and harder time discerning which home improvement adventure is legitimate and which is spurred on by homicide on the property. The house doesn’t even look the same as when they moved in. They’ve poured a few hundred thousand dollars into repairs and they still haven’t finished with everything they want to do.

She has to admit, though. The house? It looks absolutely  _fabulous_. Wonderful, really, what they’ve done with the place. If they ever decide to flip Evelyn is certain they’ll get a huge profit. She’s considering asking them if they’d help her and Cullen out with their house.

They’ve been meaning to redo the yard and patio since they moved in, but neither of them is home long enough for it and they can’t get a dog unless their back yard is suitable enough. Neither of them are going to put a dog in that yard. It doesn’t even have a nice tree to sleep under.

And no home is a home without a dog.

“He fell down on top of me,” Lavellan says.

Bull frowns, “Shit. Sorry, babe.”

“It’s okay, you protected me from the other stairs in the process,” Lavellan pats his arm.

Cullen nudges Evelyn’s side and looks meaningfully at a very small bit of blood on the bright yellow wall.

“I’m guessing that’s yours,” Evelyn says.

“Probably,” Lavellan replies. “Bull, your eye is unfocused.”

“Shit,” Bull says, “I think we should call Stitches.”

“Stitches?” Evelyn’s eyebrows raise, “I’m calling an  _ambulance_.”

“Stitches is better than an ambulance, he’s got - he’s got shit you can drink. Knocks you right out.”

“You aren’t supposed to be drinking those,” Cullen says, “That’s self-poisoning, not self-medicating.”

-

“That’s it,” Herah hears Lavellan yelling over the phone, “I’m done! This is enough! They have  _crossed a line_.”

Herah holds the phone between her ear and her shoulder. Eventually Lavellan will remember that there is a phone somewhere near her, that it is indeed on, and that Herah is on the other end.

For now, Herah flips through channels and tries to find something to watch while waiting for Josephine to be finished with her nightly distressing routine. Herah would join her, but today feels like a day Josephine needs to take by herself. Herah respects that and wishes Josephine the best of feelings and recovery from a stressful day of working with Evelyn and Maxwell to keep the worse powers of Thedas on check.

Herah’s just here to be menacing and thuggish.

“Herah, you will  _not believe - don’t you shush me, Bull._  I swear this is all on  _you_. It has to be on you. No one with a grudge against me or sent to stop me would ever sink so low. That’s right, I’m saying the Qun would sink that low. Herah, do you know what they did?”

Herah should ask who this  _they_  is. Herah does not. Lavellan will most likely divulge this later, anyway.

Always let them do the talking.

The longer they talk the more they reveal.

So Herah just makes a faint noise of Inquiry and lowers the volume on the TV.

“They destroyed my box plants, Herah. My mint was very fragile. Grown from seed. And with the move they were just beginning to settle in.”

Herah supposes that this means that Lavellan’s monster of a mint plant had resumed its attempts to strangle all nearby foreign foliage that was not mint.

“Trashed. Broken. The entire box. It’d be a miracle if I could salvage any of it. Stems broken. Roots torn. It’s a scene of carnage, Herah. Absolute barbaric carnage and Bull wants me to keep quiet about it.  _No more I say! I refuse to let them win_.”

Herah nods, even though Lavellan can’t see it, she trusts that Lavellan will imagine it.

“And don’t even get my started on my sunflowers! Broken! All broken! I can’t even harvest new seeds to start over - and sunflower season is almost over anyway. It’s absolutely wretched, Herah,  _wretched_. And that tree I just planted - you know the one - “

Lavellan’s voice warbles and chokes and thins out.

Herah grimaces, braces herself. Because she does indeed know the one.

The first thing Lavellan did in that house was plant that tree. Before any boxes were unpacked, before they had even slept there once, Lavellan had planted that tree.

She invited all of her friends over and they all stood with her while they planted that tree.

Her memorial tree. For her dead.

“What happened to the tree?” Herah asks.

Lavellan’s breathing is loud and clearly distressed.

“Burned,” Lavellan chokes out. “It’s just - black, now. All black.”

Herah hisses between her teeth.

Lavellan’s voice darkens, “They did not die in nearly a painful enough way to atone for the injury done to my garden. My place. My home.  _My family_.”

Herah’s mind catches on this declaration -

“Ellana?”

“I will not stop until I have rooted out the very last and furthest of this bitter insurgence against me. I want you to tell Evelyn -  _Bull this is bigger than the two of us now, they are going after my trees, my plants, my memories_  - that I am going to Skyhold first thing tomorrow morning and she better be ready for me because  _we are going to take down an international crime syndicate_  and I want it done by this time next week.”

Lavellan hangs up.

Herah feels the phone slide from her hand and bounce on the couch.

“Is something wrong?”

Herah turns to see Josephine, fresh faced and relaxed and rosy-cheeked, sanguine and serene.

Josephine, Josie, Josie.

Her wonderful Josie.

“Nothing,” Herah’s voice is only a little more high pitched than it should be, which really is a give away but it could also be explained as many other things. “Pick the movie, kadan. I couldn’t decide on anything - uh. I’ve got to. Uh. Make a - a call. Right now.  _I’ll be right back, start with out me, I love you and you look gorgeous tonight, see you in five minutes, bye_.”

Herah rushes past Josephine, pausing to kiss her on the cheek, before mashing Evelyn’s number and running out the front door to run to the roof entrance.

“Evelyn, remember all those bodies? Lavellan and Bull’s bodies? Uh. Call me right now. Right now, Evelyn. I’m not joking here. Pick up the damn phone, I don’t care how far gone you are over Rutherford you are, this is more important than whatever puppy dog eyes he’s giving you. Or whatever else he’s giving you right now.”


	120. Chapter 120

“Evelyn,” Maxwell tilts his head up and back to look at the sky. “Evelyn, I think that it is entirely possible that I might - Well. I don’t know how to say this, actually.”

“It helps to just say it, Max,” Evelyn says, watching as Mahanon shows her a drawing he made in the dirt using his “sword”. Said sword is a sharp stick with a thorn attached to one end. It’s incredibly charming that Mahanon considers this a sword.

It’s also incredibly astounding how much damage he can and has done with said sword to things significantly larger, more dangerous, and generally better equipped than him.

Maxwell splays his fingers as Ellana makes games of gently looping and gliding through them, trailing pale pink and yellow lights behind her, laughing to herself as she weaves between his fingers and thumbs and palms as he slowly moves them. He squints a little against the blue of the sky and Ellana gives him an encouraging thumbs up and then rolls between his hands in little circles, tucked into a little heart-beat of a ball.

“Evelyn, I think that I might fancy men.”

" _Excuse me_?” Evelyn sputters. Maxwell risks a glance at her and grimaces. Evelyn looks like he’s just hit her with the hilt of his sword. “I - um. I - I don’t know what to - um. So - ah. Is there - is there any particular reason why you’re telling me this, Max?”

Maxwell has to give his cousin incredible credit for how quickly she’s moved from complete surprise to attempting to control her situation and provide him with support. Especially considering that Mahanon is now sulking over the lack of attention being given to his drawing in the dirt and is scratching over said drawing with his thorn-sword in a very sullen and petulant manner that Maxwell would probably get stabbed for if he said was  _adorable_  out loud.

Ellana solves his problem for him by gliding over to her fellow sprite and wrapping him in a hug and chattering at him in their own little language.

“Well,” Maxwell gestures at his sprite, “I mean. There must be a reason why she’s so attracted to the Iron Bull. On some level I must be attracted to him, too. I don't think it’d be  _too_  much of a stretch, considering the types she’s been attracted to before.”

“People who could crush you with their bare hands without a second thought? Yes, Maxwell, I’m familiar with the sort she tends to run off after entirely besotted,” Evelyn muses. “Well - that can’t be true, because Mahanon has  _never_  approved of anyone who I’ve attempted to court or been courted by.”

“Untrue, he likes Cullen,” Maxwell replies.

Evelyn’s eyebrows raise, “Where do you get  _that_  impression?”

“He’s - always around him?”

“Cullen’s never had a sprite so I told him he could borrow Mahanon to get a feel for what it’s like to have one.”

“Ah, so  _you_  made Mahanon hang around the Commander.”

“Mahanon’s only stabbed him twice, very shallow. I’ve told Cullen that it’s a  _Mahanon_  thing, not a sprite thing. I’m not sure he’s sold on the whole thing,” Evelyn admits, sounding sheepish.

“Mahanon stabs people to show he cares,” Maxwell waves a hand, “You’re fine.”

“No, Max. He does not stab people to show he cares, he stabs people when he gets impatient with them and thinks they’re doing things badly,” Evelyn says, giving Maxwell a funny look.

“No, that can’t be true. Mahanon stabs me all the time when we’re together.”

“ _He what_?”

“We’re not talking about you and Cullen, though. How does everything get back to you and Cullen? It’s like you’re - like you’re protagonists or something. This is about me for once, Evelyn, please stay on task.”

Evelyn frowns, looking perplexed but gestures for him to go on.

“So I think it’s possible that I might fancy the Iron Bull. I’m not sure,” Maxwell frowns, “I mean. I don’t see why I  _wouldn’t_  fancy a man of his. Ah. Stature.” Maxwell coughs into his fist, “It’s just. Ah. A little help, my more eloquent and well read cousin?”

“Maxwell, I don’t think you fancy the Iron Bull. I mean - I don’t want to tell you how you feel. But that’s not really the feeling I get when I see the two of you talking to each other,” Evelyn says, coming to sit next to him as their sprites play in the dirt.  “Have you ever felt anything for any other men?”

“Possibly? How am I to know?”

“Well. How do you feel about Cullen?”

“I’m not about to go flirting with your lover, Evelyn, if that’s what you’re going after.”

“Of course not, Maxwell. And even if you did, I wouldn’t really care. Cullen is a grown man who can make his own romantic choices.” Evelyn looks a little disturbed for a moment and Maxwell tilts his head.

“What?”

“Well. No offense. But I don’t think I’d want to be in a love triangle with you, Maxwell. If you really  _do_  turn out to fancy men and you take a fancy towards Cullen - and I mean if you fancied him quite a bit, I think I’d have to back off?”

“Why would  _you_  be the one backing off in that situation?” Maxwell twists to face her fully, “You two are already together!”

Evelyn studies her muddied boots, picking at some dried dirt as Maxwell studies the red flush of her ears.

“Maker’s breath, you two haven’t actually gotten together. All of this - this flirting and tension and obviousness and  _you two aren’t together at all_. Evelyn, I’m so disappointed in you right now.”

“I thought we were talking about you and your potential feelings towards the Iron Bull?” Evelyn jabs Maxwell’s ribs with her elbow, “Come on. Focus.”

“You’re the one who asked if I had feelings towards Rutherford!”

“I’m trying to do a process of elimination here! So you don’t have feelings for Cullen?”

“None!”

“Alright - what about Solas?”

“ _No_ , he’s like - a very disapproving governess.”

“True, but - sometimes people find that attractive? He does have that air of control that most of Ellana’s fixations have.”

“Mmm, no. Feels different. Okay, so no on Cullen and Solas.”

“Blackwall?”

“Absolutely  _not_.”

“Dorian?”

“Everyone loves Dorian. Dorian most of all and not enough. Possible maybe.”

“Fair,” Evelyn nods, looking towards the sky and biting her thumbnail, “Varric?”

“No.”

“Cole?”

“No offense to Cole,  _but not in a thousand years.”_

 _“_ Krem?”

“Roguishly handsome, I suppose. But more like a fun friend,” Maxwell says after a moment of consideration.

“And how is the Iron Bull different?”

Maxwell groans and puts his head in his hands, “I don’t know? Ellana seems to think he’s the absolute cream of the crop and I have no idea why. At least with the Warden Commander and the Champion of Kirkwall it was easier to see why. Maker, why can’t she be more like Mahanon? He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about other people unless they piss him off first.”

“Please be careful what you wish for, Maxwell. I know it looks quite self contained from where you are considering that Ellana is liable to wander off at any given moment but I’ve had to stop Mahanon from exacting bloody revenge on five people in the past two days. He’s so  _prissy_.”


	121. Chapter 121

“Isn’t this some form of cannibalism?” Varric asks as Lavellan enthusiastically bites into and chews a strawberry tart that Sera had given the Sylvari as a peace offering.

Well, it’s more of an apology, than a peace offering, as Sera probably has no intentions of peace in general. Sera will probably be back to her abrasive self within a few days. Not that Lavellan has ever really let said abrasive personality get to her. She’s a good sprout.

Most Sylvari  _are_. Even the bad ones - mostly they think they’re doing good but in a twisted and warped way.

Varric is pretty certain the meanest Sylvari get is when they’re calling each other cruel and despicable because their Mother Tree raised them all to be noble beyond belief. Or grew them to be noble. Varric still isn’t so sure about the syntax used to describe the Sylvari and their way of coming into existence, fully formed and ready to go out into the world.

“Sera wouldn’t cook a Sylvari,” Lavellan says, missing the point entirely, before going through the little box of sugared goods Sera gave her earlier, exclaiming in delight as she pulls out a chocolate covered banana. “I’ve heard about these! I’m told that they’re fantastically delicious. Varric, have you ever had a banana?”

“Yes, they’re nice,” Varric says, accepting the chocolate covered fruit, “So - you don’t consider eating other plants cannibalism?”

“I’m not a plant, I’m a Sylvari, Varric,” Lavellan says, “It’s not cannibalism when Charr eat steak, is it?”

“Charr aren’t steer.”

“Sometimes they have the horns of one,” Lavellan replies, “Like the Iron Bull. His name is Bull. He eats steaks and beef all the time. I’ve never heard anyone asking him if that’s cannibalism.”

“I see your point but - you grew out of a seed pod.”

“The Iron Bull came out of a vagina.”

Varric uses every ounce of will power he has not to imagine that. He mostly succeeds.

“Alright,” Varric says, “Is this a sign to drop the topic?”

Lavellan blinks at him, “If you want to? I was just saying the truth. I mean - lots of things come out of seed pods. Lots of things come out of vaginas. And lots of things come out of eggs, too! When you think about it, seed pods are a little like eggs. A little less goopy, I think. But it’s just as warm. Do you remember what it was like inside your mother, Varric?”

Lavellan beams, “The Pale Tree’s Dream is very pleasant, I sometimes wonder what it must be like not to have that. It’s not a very pretty thought, to me, at least. The Soundless seem alright, but they’re a little strange. The Nightmare Court is just  _awful_. But all of us  _have_  the Dream. I wonder what it’s like for the rest of you. No Pale Tree, no Dream. Nothing warm to welcome you back. Oh, I get shivers thinking about it! How strange!”

She takes another bite of the strawberry tart, gazing off into the distance looking pensive and appropriately  _Sylvari_.

Varric sighs. The Sylvari and Asura are a stone’s throw a way from each other, when you think about it. Both of their races are curious, but the Sylvari are Dreamers in every sense of the word and sometimes you can’t help but wonder how they get anything done.

-

“It’s a disaster, she’s met the Quaggans,” Krem says, flopping down on the grass of the embankment, eyes closing as he soaks in the morning sun. “She’ll be down there forever. We’re never getting her back.”

“How is that a disaster? Meeting the Quaggans, I mean. Not the rest of that,” the Chief asks, his shadow instantly making Krem’s wet skin feel colder. Krem frowns, gesturing at him to move.

“You’re standing in my light.”

The Charr grumbles before moving and Krem relaxes again in the sun once the Iron Bull’s shadow has moved.

“I need to stop letting you hang around Pavus. You weren’t like this before. Sometimes you respected me as your leader.”

“I’m going to ignore that, because we both know that isn’t true. Anyway. You’ve met Lavellan,” Krem says.

“Obviously.”

“You’ve met Quaggans.”

“Get to it, Aclassi.”

“Now, put those two together. Imagine; Lavellan’s Sylvari brand  _newness_  and  _pep_  meets Quaggan gentle and soft. If she comes out of that water talking in the third person, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The Iron Bull sighs, “I shouldn’t have let her go in there.”

“I’m sure that Pact Commander Trevelyan appreciates our outreach and collaboration with the local population to combat the multiple rising threats of Tyria. Besides - are you joking? As if you could have  _stopped_  her from diving in there head first,  _literally_. I don’t think Lavellan has ever listened to a single word anyone has ever said to her. Not even the Pale Tree, based on anecdotes from other Sylvari. She’s a  _free spirit_. The second she saw those diving goggles we  _lost her_.”

“I appreciate you going in after her. But why’d you leave her?”

“It’s fine. What’s the worst that can happen? She’s surrounded in like minds. Besides, Skinner and Grim are in the water, too. Helping catch crabs. The Quaggan are short on food, but they said we could take some if we help catch them.”

“The Hermit Crabs here don’t have a very good taste,” Bull says, “Why would we want them? I understand the Quaggans - they have a unique taste and it’s all they have.”

“Lavellan’s never had crabs, Quaggan style or no,” Krem says, sitting up to slowly take off the wet portions of his clothes so he can dry a little better. “She wants the experience. We told her that the Quaggan crabs taste like - politely speaking and with as little offense as possible - rubber made of ass. Do you know what she said to us, Chief?”

“I get the feeling that you’re going to tell me whether I want to know or not, Aclassi,” the Iron Bull sighs, “Cut the drama and get on with it. I’m too old for this.”

“ _How else would I know what rubber ass tastes like_?”

-


	122. Chapter 122

“It’s a peony, I think,” Varric says, examining the back of Lavellan’s head as she patiently waits for Evelyn to finish sewing her a new cap - this time with enhancements to her ice magic. Lavellan is excited for this. It’s going to be red and pink. She likes those colors.

“Really? I love peonies!” Lavellan says, turning and almost hitting Varric in the face with said flower blooming directly out of her head, “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I - I forgot that I couldn’t see the back of my head and turned on reflex. It’s a peony! How delightful.”

“You didn’t know?” Evelyn asks, eyes focused on the cloth in front of her as she imbues it with magic, “I thought you would have, I mean. It’s - ah.  Your hair? Your head?”

“Well. I know it’s a flower and I know the general shape of it,” Lavellan says, rocking a little, the leaves framing her face gently bobbing, “But I don’t know the details of it. We don’t really have mirrors in the Grove. And I think it would take some doing to see the back of your own head.”

“Well, the back of your head is very pretty,” Varric says. “As far as flowers go.”

“Thank you!”

“And it’s going to be well protected,” Evelyn says, bringing the cloth closer to her face as she works.

“Thank you, Commander Evelyn,” Lavellan says, “I appreciate everything you do for me even though I know it’s a ploy for you to hide while people look for you to do important things that you’re too tired to do.”

Evelyn pets Lavellan’s head, “Sometimes, Lavellan, I don’t know about you. You throw me off. It’s a good thing. Please continue being you.”

“I have peony for hair,” Lavellan says glowing under the dubious praise, “I like peonies. Do you like poenies?”

“I do, I like your peony,” Evelyn says.

“Do you think the Iron Bull likes peonies?” Lavellan asks.

“Maybe you should ask him, he’s coming over,” Varric says.

“Shit,” Evelyn swears.

Lavellan brightens up and waves both arms in the air, “Hello! I have a very important question for you, the Iron Bull.”

“Alright, can it wait until I give our Commander her orders from the Pact Marshall?” The Iron Bull asks, extending a single finger to run his claw along the edge of the leaves that frame Lavellan’s face, gently brushing them. Not out of her eyes - no, the leaves are too structured for that kind of falling - or to arrange them. Just to touch. Lavellan straightens up into the touch, the tip of his claw just grazing her forehead.

“Okay.”

“How magnanimous,” Evelyn mutters, “I’m busy. Is it - is it terribly important?”

“I’m sure most people would say yes, but who am I to tell the Pact Commander what is and isn’t important?” Bull says, “Here, I’m just going to put this down next to you and you can look at it after you’re done making - what is that?”

“She’s making me a new hat,” Lavellan says.

“What happened to your old one?”

“She wore it down into a scrap of cotton is what happened, held together by will and good fortune,” Varric says.

“Sounds about right,” Bull muses, “Alright, little boss, what’s the question?”

“Do you,” Lavellan begins, dragging out the words and looking sly like a child about to propose a question they think is very clever to an adult, “Like peonies?”

Bull blinks, looks at Varric who just looks back at him, and at Evelyn who’s ignoring them all.

“You mean,” Bull replies, “Like the one growing on your head?”

Lavellan’s face splits into a smile and Bull grins down at her, pressing the pad of his thumb against the center of her forehead, “Yup. I like them. I like yours.”

Lavellan laughs, nuzzling her head against his hand and then turning to Varric, nudging him with her elbow, “He likes my flower.”

“He likes  _you_ ,” Varric sighs, shaking his head. “The worst-best match in all of Tyria, I swear.”

-

“I didn't know you were here!” Lavellan says, a mixture of surprise and delight in her voice as she throws spells over his shoulder.

“That’s the point of the disguise,” Bull says, “I didn’t know  _you_  were here.”

“I was looking for you,” Lavellan says, “And then they said you went off in the direction of the bandit camp and I was scared that you got hurt all by yourself because there’s quite a lot of them, the Iron Bull. And did you know there’s a bandit  _champion_  near here? What if they hurt you!”

“So  _you_  went in by yourself?”

“Well -  _no_ ,” Lavellan begins, as the Iron Bull slows down, now that they’re a fair distance away from the very upset bandits.

The Iron Bull, at this point, barely manages to dodge an arrow that zips past his nose.

This is a bad position. He’s not in his own gear - bandit disguise - and he’s got Lavellan over his shoulder, slightly bloodied, and no back up.

“Put my sister down, Charr,” A voice snarls from the red rocks and Bull looks up, and throws himself to the side, rolling while moving Lavellan close to his chest, before coming up in a crouch. He holds Lavellan close to his belly, because he knows that this brave woman of his would - without a doubt, or a care towards the fact he just hauled her away from getting killed by a mob of angry bandits - launch herself at anything that comes close to a threat if he didn’t keep her close.

The words, then, register, when Lavellan does not try to wiggle free to attack, but rather starts waving.

“That’s my brother, I didn’t come  _alone_ , exactly,” Lavellan says, “But he refused to come in with me!”

Bull squints against the figure blotted out by the sun behind him. Good strategy.

The figure jumps and starts scrambling down the rocks expertly before slowly walking over, bow still ready to be drawn, a fern hound following closely behind.

Narrow, dark eyes - familiar eyes - glare at him and the sharp planes of bark on the Sylvari’s face are a strange echo of Lavellan’s.

“You make it sound as though I was the one being unreasonable, sister,” He says, eyeing Bull up and down. “This is the Charr?”

“Yes! He’s alright and everything. He was  _under cover_ , Mahanon,” Lavellan says as Bull slowly stands to his full height, releasing her and setting her down gently. Her flowers brush against his stomach and chest as she looks between them. “Mahanon didn’t want to go in, but I said we absolutely  _had to_  because what if they were hurting you? I couldn’t just  _wait_. So I told him that I was going in to fetch you and he  _didn’t come with me_ , but it’s alright because it all turned out to be cherry!”

Mahanon’s face is a complicated twist of many familiar emotions that Bull is feeling right now.

“You  _rushed in without me_ ,” He says. “It was dangerous and I said we should do some reconnaissance first.”

“We’d been doing reconnaissance for  _one whole day_  and we had Pact information,” Lavellan whines.

Bull watches the two descend into friendly bickering as Mahanon checks Lavellan’s wounds.

All Sylvari are brothers and sisters in a sense, so he’s not quite sure if that’s what the two mean when they refer to each other as brother and sister. But there’s a close familiarity to them that tells him they mean it in another way.

“We came out from the same pod,” Lavellan says, answering his question before he can ask it. “We don’t have the same Dream, but we did share a pod. Mahanon is a Pact Scout, too. But mostly he stays in the Grove to fight the Nightmare Court.”

“She talks about you all the time, I don’t know how anyone can stand it,” Mahanon says, and Bull cautiously holds his hand out to the fern hound that’s come to sniff at him. The hound gives his claws a tentative sniff and lick before barking and wagging its tail. Mahanon looks between the hound and the Iron Bull and nods once. “You’ll do.”

“Thanks?”

Lavellan throws an arm around her brother’s shoulder and kisses his cheek.

“See? Cherry!”


	123. Chapter 123

“I have a wife and kids,” Bull says, “I can’t die here.”

“ _You_?” Bull thinks he should be insulted by the way the Magister says the word  _you_. As if to imply that Bull is somehow beneath normal things like marriage and children, or that he’s from some other plane of existence where these things don’t apply to him. Then again, he supposes that’s kind of the image he’s been working up for the past thirty or so years of his life. “ _You?_ You have a  _what_?”

“A wife and kids,” Bull says, trying to break free of the bonds behind his back. Chains he could work with, chains he could file away. This is about seven layers of thick, itching burlap and that’s something a bit harder to deal with.

“Who in their right mind would marry  _you_?”

“I would! I would totally marry him!” Lavellan says, squirming against his back, her arms and legs wrapped together with thick layers of tape  _and_  burlap. And she’s right behind him because they figure if she sets her stuff on fire to escape she probably won’t be able to stop that fire from getting Bull in the process. “I would marry him again, even! Two times! Three times! A hundred times!”

Lavellan pauses her attempts at getting free, “Wait, we have  _children_? When were you going to tell me we had children! I’ve been neglecting them this whole time by not knowing they exist! Oh, I feel terrible, Bull. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Bull rolls his eye, “Kadan.”

“Yes?”

“You know that hoard of assholes that follows me around and calls me names and generally gets into trouble every time I look the other way? Those are the children. Also, Cole. He’s a kid. He’s like -  _the kid_.”

Lavellan huffs, “Don’t scare me like that. Those aren’t children, Bull. They pay  _taxes_. You have to be an adult to pay taxes.”

She resumes squirming, “I mean,  _I don’t pay taxes_  because I’m clearly not adult enough for that.”

“You’re  _thirty seven_.”

“They can’t make me pay taxes because I’m not legally a citizen of Orlais  _or_  Ferelden,” Lavellan replies. “It’s because they won’t approve me for a passport or a visa, but I’m already here and not going anywhere. I don’t have a social security number.”

“Then how did we get  _married_? How are you getting paid? You have insurance.”

“All through our best friends Josephine and Leliana! Speaking of,  _duck_.”

Bull ducks instantly and the sound of the bullet shattering glass and then shattering bone, brain matter, and various soft tissues follows.

“Nice shot,” Bull says.

“It’s been so long since I was in the field, I was worried,” Leliana says, “Thank goodness you ducked. It looks like that would’ve taken off some of your scalp.”

“That’s very comforting,” Bull says.

“You know what else is comforting?”

Bull groans.

“The children are safe!” Lavellan exclaims.

“You calling us your kids,” Krem says, strolling into the room, sporting a huge bruise on his cheek and a bandage on his temple. “I never knew you felt that way ‘bout us, Chief. I’m touched. I’m really touched.”

“Yeah, Chief,” Skinner says, favoring her left side as she slowly strides over, drawing a knife to cut them loose, “Never knew you cared that much. Knew you were softer than an Orlesian pastry at a debutante ball.”

“You’re all fired.”

“As if you could,” Stitches says, carrying a med-kit and following in behind Leliana, rifle on her shoulder as she goes to inspect her handiwork. “We all know that Lavellan’s the one in charge now and she’d never let us go.”

“Exactly right,” Lavellan says, “You’re all alright? Nothing permanent? All fingers and toes present? Same with the other extremities?”

“Yes’m,” Krem gives a lazy salute, grinning at Bull as Skinner cuts them loose, “In fact our hearts feel three sizes larger thanks to all that love and concern.”

“I can’t believe you can still run your mouth like that with all those blows to the head,” Bull says, “Shouldn’t you be convalescing somewhere? Quiet-like and all?”

-

“Did you know that I am not actually a party planner,” Dorian says as he watches Lavellan rush past him into the room behind him to change, “This is not my forte. This is not my field of expertise. Seeing as we have been working together for many years - Lavellan, my most dear friend, my best friend, my bosom buddy - I feel like you know exactly what my expertise is.”

“Not the time, Dorian.”

“Lavellan, you are late to your own bachelorette party.”

“To be fair - “

“A party you  _begged me to help you with_.”

“Well, true, but also - “

“A party that we have rescheduled  _four times_. We actually had to  _delay your wedding_. Which I also did not agree to help plan but got roped into anyway because - and I quote,  _you wanted someone to actually stick up for you_  during the wedding planning because you’re terrified of Leliana, Josephine, and Vivienne as a combined force. I don’t fault you on that, by the way. I’m just trying to say - “

Dorian is cut off by Lavellan throwing her pants directly into his face as she changes into something more appropriate for bachelorette party rather than  _red-eye flights from oversees assassinations._

“You’re going to give me gray hair is what I’m trying to say here,” Dorian says.

“You’d look very distinguished, Dorian,” Lavellan says, unhooking her bra and throwing it over her shoulder as she grabs the backless dress that Leliana picked out for her. She pauses, staring at it. “ _Really_?”

“First we’re going classy,” Dorian says - he was outvoted on comfortable night in, even though he’s entirely certain that’s what Lavellan would want, especially after  _overseas assassinations_. “Then it’s just downhill from there.”

“Alright, I guess,” Lavellan shrugs, stepping into the dress, “Either way, you’d look incredibly distinguished with silver hair, Dorian. You’d make it work. You’re very good at that.”

“I know,” Dorian says, “But I’d rather not have to make anything work. I’d rather just have normal not graying hair at the tender age of thirty five.”

“You don’t look a day older than twenty six, I promise you.”

“That’s sweet, Lavellan, but you didn’t know me at twenty six.”

“Twenty six, twenty nine, there can’t be that much of a difference.”

“Well. For one thing, I’m now a Magister and also apparently I’m leading a revolution in Tevinter, so  _yes_. Things can change incredibly in three years and it’s been  _six_.”

“Well, cheers to six more, how do I look?”

“Like you just stumbled off of a plane with zero hours of sleep,” Dorian replies, “We can probably fix that. Dim lighting also does wonders. Shall we?”


	124. Chapter 124

“Aw, fuck,” Bull groans, slowly pushing his knuckles into the floor, and from there pushing himself to his knees, “They’re going to think I’m abusing you. They’re going to call the cops, watch.”

“Or, maybe I’m abusing you and it was you reacting in self defense. Did you ever consider that theory, Bull? I wish you wouldn’t fall into the stereotypes so much. It’s awful because you’re such a gentle man. My gentle husband who loves hot coco with little marshmallows and blue cotton candy at the fair and likes it when I win him prizes from the rigged carnival booths.”

“The stereotype part is on purpose, kadan. You know that. And I don't like it when you win me prizes, I like it when you reverse con the fuck out of all those scammers. Putting that off to the side, I am entirely certain that we caused enough noise that someone’s called the cops on us.” Bull drags himself to the nearest solid surface that can support his weight and leans back on it, stretching his legs out and rolling his head back to look at her. “I don’t think you can get someone down here to clean it up before the cops come.”

“Then you put on your old uniform and you talk cop to them until Evelyn  _does_  show up,” Lavellan says, wheezing and out of breath, grunting as she slumps against the entry to the kitchen, “This is entirely Evelyn’s fault. This isn’t even on either of us this time. The Inquisition is footing this. I’m going to  _sue_.”

“How is this Evelyn’s fault?” Bull asks.

“You were too busy being ambushed in the tool shed to overhear this tool going on about how she pissed off his employer with her latest series of crack downs and raids. I wouldn’t be surprised if we called all our friends and they told us that they just got ambushed too,” Lavellan says, glancing at the unconscious body in the middle of their trashed kitchen, groceries spilled out all over the floor along with broken glass and scattered cook-ware. “She’s paying for the groceries we just lost. And emotional damage. Also clean up and disposal.”

“I’ll pass that along to her,” Bull says sighing, “We just redid the kitchen.”

Lavellan looks around the wreckage that Bull can only see parts of. She swears under her breath, and he watches her slowly sink onto the floor, awkwardly curled over her right side. Bruised ribs. Punch to the kidneys maybe.

“Fuck it, whatever,” Lavellan says, “I hated the backsplash anyway. You were right, it is awful. We’ll redo it.”

“Just like how I was right about the paint upstairs?”

“ _Pick. Your. Battles_.” Lavellan glares at him, holding her fingers up and pinching them together, “I am  _this close_ , Bull.”

“Your fingers are touching.”

“Exactly. I just got two pints of a limited flavor of ice cream. The last two in the entire store, Bull. And guess what?  _Spilled. Melted. Destroyed. Smeared._  All over this kitchen floor. Did I even get to taste any of it?  _No._  Because I wanted to wait to eat it with you. Terrible. Absolutely terrible. I can’t even surprise my husband with seasonal ice cream. Unbelievable.”

“What flavor was it?”

“Peach and butter pecan with maple swirl,” Lavellan replies and Bull groans. That does sound really good. “See! You would have loved it! We could each have one pint to ourselves while we watch reruns of that one cartoon you like. We’d have an entire night - an entire weekend out of it! It would’ve been just grand!”

“One, two pints would last us half a day, not a whole weekend,” Bull says, “Two, any special occasion?”

“Who needs a special occasion? I just thought it’d be nice,” Lavellan says, and then turning her head up to yell at the ceiling, “But apparently I can’t have nice things and share them with my husband!”

She turns back to him, “Can you call Evelyn for this? My phone is in the car with the rest of the groceries I didn’t finish unloading and now may never get to unload because my everything hurts.”

“Busted phone,” Bull says.

“Shit. Another one?”

“Evelyn will definitely be comping that one,” Bull says.

“What about your burner? The one you pretend to hide from me just for appearances sake, but not really because all you did was put it next to your condoms as if your condoms weren't next to me pads on the back of the toilet seat in my favorite lace basket that Cole made me last summer? That one, specifically, I mean. Not the other burner you keep in the false compartment underneath the driver seat in your truck because I know that one got confiscated two weeks ago.”

“Also confiscated,” Bull says, “For screwing around with it.”

“Screwing around with it? You’ve never even used it! I have to dust it every time I clean.”

“Well, no, yeah - I do use it to sext Cassandra.”

“You  _what, Cassandra Pentaghast?_ ”

“It’s code,” Bull says, “Like hey what are you wearing is what are you working on right now, and anything mentioning underwear is undercover work or some sort of street slash footwork information gathering, dark colored underwear is dangerous possibly risky, may need help, and light colored underwear is - I’ll explain the entire system later but Evelyn was pissed that we couldn’t figure out a better code to use so she took those phones from us and we’re supposed to be getting new ones - monitored by Josephine - in about a month.”

“You mean Cassandra actually  _sexts back_? Astounding. If Evelyn doesn’t foot the bill for our house and my emotional damage I’m telling everyone and then Cassandra will be at Evelyn’s  _throat_  for this.”

Bull tilts his head at the same time Lavellan does.

“Sirens,” They both say.

“So, whats our story?”

“I’ll talk cop to them about home intruders possibly concerning a grudge on one of my old cases,” Bull says, “You get to your phone and call Evelyn for stat interception.”

“And these guys?”

“You hit him with a frying pan twice, he’s not getting up. And I fell down on this one with my full weight elbow first, he’s going to be pissing blood for the next two weeks. Go.”

“Fine,” Lavellan says, slowly pushing herself back up, teeth gritted together, “Also you know, I wish I could stay here and listen to you talk cop. You’re really cool when you talk cop.”

“Thanks, babe,” Bull says, also slowly pushing himself to his feet, “You’re also really cool when you beat people up with household appliances.”


	125. Chapter 125

“What happened to die or die?” Sera calls into Lavellan and Bull’s work room as she passes back into their living room.

“Die or die?” Evelyn asks as she watches the rest of them take their positions around the coffee table. Evelyn is safely perched on the couch and watching TV over all of them because she’s Cullen’s ride home and this round is the  _drunk round_ , where their characters are all inebriated and for the ultimate realism they’re getting drunk, too.

Dagna is both Dorian and Sera’s ride, and she’s busy sorting out containers in Bull and Lavellan’s kitchen for who gets to take what home. She insisted on this duty because otherwise Sera would grab too much stuff that they’d forget to eat and Sera agreed enthusiastically because even Sera knows her own limits.

(“Oh, no, shit yeah, she’s right. I’d grab like the entire container of toast and then I’d stop eating it in two days because I’m all garlic-toasted out, which is different from garlic-ed out, and then I’d feel like absolute shit because food wastage is such a terrible and easily solved problem.”)

They’ve had a nice big dinner of spaghetti, garlic toast, and cranberry crumble cake. Now they’re onto the drinking part with a healthy assortment of junk food guaranteed to kill within ten years. Except Lavellan, who’s retreated into her office to  _play an MMORPG_  as of thirty minutes ago, abandoning everyone else to clean up duty. Evelyn didn’t know Lavellan could be that quiet outside of a life or death situation, or one involving a bet.

“It’s like ride or die, but its like - dice or die,” Sera says, sitting down next to Dorian and flipping open her character sheet. “Which is what Lavellan was until now. Apparently.”

“There’s nothing wrong with computer games aside from how they ruin your mind and contain no real need for skill,” Dorian says, exchanging a high five with Sera.

“You’re snobs,” Cullen says, leaning back against Evelyn’s legs, “Absolute snobs.”

“Says the man who says keeping your character sheet in an app and using an app to roll dice is against the spirit of the game,” Bull points out, “Enough whining about games that aren’t the one I’m running right now. Everyone take your shots.”

“Are  _you_  supposed to be drinking too?” Dagna asks as she comes in to join Evelyn in watching a new drama they found on Netflix. It’s the perfect opportunity to catch up, because Cullen  _tries_  but he’s too - he’s too. Ugh, he ruins the fantasy by asking perfectly normal questions about physics.

Evelyn does physics all day, alright? She’d like to take a break from thinking about the numbers for two blissful hours. Or days, if she’s binging.

“Nah,” Bull says as he takes a shot, “I won’t get hammered. Just enough for a buzz. It’s not fair if the rest of them get my booze and I don’t. In my own  _house_.”

“Fair enough,” Evelyn says, running a hand through Cullen’s hair as he pours out another round of shots, “Easy guys. It’s just DND, you don’t need to get that hard core about it.”

“Said by someone who doesn’t play DND,” Dorian muses, holding his shot glass up to her, “Cheers. Let’s roll some dice.”

Twenty minutes later Evelyn and Dagna are torn between watching the drama in front of them and the drama on the television.

Cullen’s character is down and has failed a save throw, Dorian’s character is about to go down, and Sera is swearing at Bull profusely, “This campaign is a sham. Ever since Lavellan’s character died you’ve been after us all to take us out so we can start a new campaign. Un-fucking-fair.”

“Untrue,” Bull says, “Maybe you’re all just shit during the drunk round.”

As if summoned by her name, Ellana comes into the room, making a beeline for Bull, dropping onto all fours and crawling on the floor behind Dorian and in front of the TV, to shove herself under his arm and mash her face into his chest.

“Was someone a dick to you?” Bull asks.

Lavellan nods.

“Do you want me to find them?”

“I’m hoping you mean in game,” Cullen says. Evelyn is pretty sure he isn’t even mad about failing his save. “Don’t use police resources to find a shitty gamer in real life to threaten them for being a shitty gamer.”

“I can totally find them,” Bull says.

Lavellan shakes her head.

“Aw, poor baby,” Dorian pats her leg, “Now that your MMO has gone badly would you consider returning to DND?”

“No,” Lavellan says, sliding down until her head is on Bull’s leg and she’s got her shins pressed to Dorian’s back. “I’m going to try again tomorrow. No stranger on the internet is going to get me down by being a dick.”

Lavellan’s lower lip wobbles and Evelyn holds out her arms.

Lavellan practically  _flies_  over the table and into them, immediately squirming and draping herself over both Dagna and Evelyn’s laps and shoving her face into a cushion.

Dagna pets Lavellan’s calves. Evelyn pets her hair.

  
“I’m very proud of you for saying that,” Dagna says, “Don’t let them win, Lavellan. You show’m who’s boss.”

“You still haven’t answered my question of whether you’ve been using police resources to mess with people who are shitty to your wife online,” Cullen says.

“I feel like that’s a question that doesn’t need to be answered,” Sera says, “Considering that he’s a former Ben Hassrath  _spy_.”

Cullen takes another shot and slowly sits back against Evelyn’s legs. She raises them so that her legs slide underneath his arms and she’s sort of cradling him. It’s good exercise. In the process it helps her hold Lavellan up.

“Can we get back to the game I’ve been trying to wrap up for the past two sessions now?” Bull says, reaching over and running a hand through Lavellan’s hair before returning to his original position.

“I knew it, you’ve been trying to sabotage us since Lavellan died,” Sera says, jabbing her finger at him from across the coffee table, “You are a shitty biased DM.”

“Please,” Dorian rolls his eyes, “At least he’s giving us a chance to finish. Your entire goal when you run a campaign is to kill us as soon as possible.”

“It’s because I hate being the DM,” Sera admits. “I don’t go  _that_  hard at you, though.”


	126. Chapter 126

“Ok, that's it, I’m voting for late half rules,” Dorian says, pinching the bridge of his nose as the rest of them make various noises of agreement and Bull nods.

“Accepted, we’re playing by late half rules,” Bull says, “Alright, let’s go then.”

“Late half rules?” Malika asks, frowning at her phone and at the worn book in front of her.

“You won’t find it in the book,” Lavellan says, “Actually, I don’t know how much of anything you’ll find in the official books and guides.”

“Half the fun is making things up yourself,” Sera says, nudging Malika’s leg under the table and grinning at her. “I think most of us have forgotten what the rules are. Except Bull because his brain is sad and never forgets anything.”

“Thanks,” Bull says.

“What’s late half rules, then?” Malika asks.

“It’s a thing we decided,” Dorian says, “When we’re all getting tired of a campaign or session, and it’s dragging on, and if it’s deep enough in the campaign, one of us - or even the DM - can call late night rules, and if enough people agree and if the DM can’t give a good reason to deny it, we start playing by a set that lets us run through faster.”

“That sounds really general,” Malika says.

“There are a lot of conditions that go into using late half rules, also called late night rules,” Cullen says, “Because usually we call it when it’s two in the morning on a Monday and we’ve been going since six the Sunday before.”

“You actually  _do_  that?” Malika looks worried, “I don’t think Uncle Edric would let me do that. I mean - he’s cool with me staying over and stuff, but I don’t think he’d let me stay up that late on a school night.”

“Don’t worry,” Bull says, “When you finally feel ready to join us for a campaign we’ll go easy. We can do morning sessions. Baby steps.”

Malika looks a little less worried, but clutches the guide book closer to her as she watches everyone around the table settle in for what she’s guessing is a strong rush through.

“Alright, so what  _are_  the late half rules exactly? How’s it different from normal Dungeons and Dragons?”

“If anyone fails a check they can challenge the DM, if they win it’s changed to a pass,” Cullen says, “So if you fail a strength check, you arm wrestle the DM, an endurance check you hold chair position, dexterity you play one of those - “ Cullen gestures at Lavellan and Sera.

Both women stand up out of their chairs, Malika leans back as they reach across her and being to clap their hands together and chant, slowly increasing in speed of hand gestures and chanting.

“I haven’t done those since I was in elementary school,” Malika says, wide eyed as Lavellan and Sera stop mid-way and sit back down. “I can’t believe you remembered all of that.”

“It comes back easy,” Sera says.

“Like riding a bike.”

“Or picking a lock.”

“Or hot-wiring a car.”

“Lo-jacking a car.”

“Changing a tire!”

“Jacking a tire.”

“I’m concerned,” Cullen says, “Those things shouldn’t be that natural.”

“Intelligence checks are solving a random math or science problem, wisdom is a word riddle,” Dorian says, “Charisma’s a little hard but basically you stare at each other and see who cracks first. It’s the only thing we have right now and it mostly works.”

“Wow, you’ve got all that sorted out really well,” Malika says.

“Dungeons and Dragons and other table top games teach you critical life skills,” Cullen says to her, slight smile to his mouth although he’s attempting to keep a straight face, “Such as thinking on your feet, teamwork, creative solutions to strange problems, critical thinking, and quick calculations. These are all things you could put on your resume, Malika.”

“Yeah, so don’t let your mom and uncle get on our case for dragging you away from your genius person studies,” Sera bumps Malika’s arm with her elbow and grins.

“They don’t say that,” Malika says, “They say you’re distracting me from my Carta training.”

“Again, the concern,” Cullen says.

“Okay, so,” Bull says, “Does anyone want to re-roll?”

“Wait,” Malika says, “ _If you have to challenge the DM for your re-roll_ …”

“Yup,” Sera says.

“Mhm,” Lavellan nods.

Dorian puts his elbow on the table, “Let’s do this. I’m breaking into this stupid locked  _cabin_  if it’s the last thing I do. Strength check for my warrior to  _kick this stupid door down_.”

“Alright, best out of three?” Bull asks as Cullen sighs and gets out of his chair to give Bull room.

“Has anyone ever  _won_?” Malika asks as the two men start, Bull quickly winning the first round, “If Bull’s your DM and he’s  _good at everything_  how can anyone  _win_?”

“Well, he’s good but he’s not that good,” Sera says, “Just avoid challenging strength and endurance checks. Cullen and Dorian are about even with him on wisdom and dexterity checks. I’m alright on dexterity, too. Lavellan can wreck him in charisma and intelligence.”

“So all four of you added together could maybe beat one of him?”

“When you put it that way, Malika, that hurts a little,” Sera says. “But you’re right.”

“Strength check still failed,” Bull says, returning to his seat as Dorian swears and glares at his character sheet. “Anyone else have any ideas for how to get into this locked cabin? That has  _no magical properties at all?_ ”

“I knock,” Lavellan says.

“I already did that,” Cullen says.

“Alright, well - I knock harder,” Lavellan says, “I mean -  _it can’t hurt_.”

“Is this a puzzle of some sort?” Malika asks.

“It’s a regular locked door on a wooden cabin,” Bull confirms. “You knock and call out, waiting a few seconds before knocking again, a little louder. Your knuckles sting where they hit against the old and rough wood. But there is still no answer or any sounds from within.”

Cullen and Lavellan’s eyes meet across the table.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Cullen asks.

“Yes,” Lavellan says.

She turns to Sera, “You?”

“Probably yes,” Sera says, and she turns to Dorian, “You think - ?”

“Knowing Bull? Yes,” Dorian nods.

And then all four of them at once say four different things.

Cullen says, “I use my sword to remove the door from its hinges.”

Lavellan says, “I open the door, it was unlocked the entire time.”

Sera says, “I burn the thing down, there’s nothing in here anyway.”

And Dorian says, “I go back to the village, there’s nothing here and we’ve been wasting time this entire time.”

Bull sighs, “ _No”_ , as the entire table erupts into arguments.

“You  _burn the entire thing down_?” Cullen gapes at Sera as Sera turns to Lavellan -

“You can’t just  _walk in!”_

Lavellan throws her hand up and gives Dorian a  _look_ , “You walked away? Why would you walk away? There’s a reason our DM brought us here!”

And Dorian turns in his chair and just stares at Cullen, “You take the damn thing off the hinges. Are you mad? Are you actually  _mad_?”

“Have you ever finished a campaign?” Malika asks Bull who shrugs one shoulder at her.

“Usually they aren't this stupid,” He waves her over and she hops out of her chair to walk around the table and to stand next to him, he gestures for her to look at his notes.

Malika reads and then hits the heel of her palm against her forehead.

“Yup,” Bull says, “And that’s why we tend to have a round that involves alcohol. It’s not actually for them, it’s for me.”

Bull’s note reads,  _Front door blocked by dead body, check back door which is broken and has a set of footprints leading off into the surrounding fields_.

“You think they’ll ever get it?” Malika asks.

“I’m going to have to create an entire new encounter to get them to this,” Bull says, “But they’ll get to it.”


	127. Chapter 127

“Josephine?” Yvette sounds nervous, Josephine’s own heart is pounding - ready to burst from her chest, really - hard enough that she understands entirely what Yvette and the entire  _palace_  is feeling right now.

Yvette’s yellow and orange daemon sits on the bannister next to Yvette’s arm, large golden eyes staring openly at the spectacle just past Josephine. The cat’s tail twitches back and forth like a steady pendulum, entirely enraptured and entertained with the night’s proceedings in an honest way that Josephine grudgingly envies and appreciates.

How nice it must be to be able to sit back and just watch a disaster unfold knowing you have no responsibilities towards it. Josephine is, possibly, resentful due to stress. She does not think this can be held against her.

“Yes, Yvette?”

“I thought - well, in your letters,” Yvette pauses, uncertain as she tries not to stare, “Um. That’s not a beetle, Josie.”

“No, it is not a beetle.”

“Or a butterfly.”

“Nor is it a butterfly.”

“Or a spider.”

“Or an ant or a bee or little crab or a mantis,” Josephine says, resisting the urge to wipe her palms on her trousers even though she knows that it wouldn’t help and her palms aren’t actually sweating through her gloves.

“That’s a varghest, Josie,” Yvette says, “The Inquisitor’s daemon is a  _varghest_.”

“Well, Yvette,” Josephine lowers her voice, consciously straining to hold it at a lower tone because getting high pitched would only carry and they really don’t need rumors flying around the Winter Palace at this exact moment, “She never spoke of her daemon and she seemed to be very fond of a shell clasp. People make assumptions.”

Yvette laughs nervously and Berlioz puffs on Josephine’s shoulder, shuffling closer to the side of her head and letting out a low and nervous laugh, “ _Josie._ ”

“Yes, Berlioz?”

“ _Josie_ ,” Berlioz whispers, the sound of his wings and feathers puffing and shuffling loud in her ear, “ _Josie!_ ”

“What?”

“I would apologize for straining you Ambassador Montilyet, if it would mean anything,” A low, sinuous, and dry voice says from next to her and Josephine turns and she freezes. The single eye watches her, the long scaled head of a varghest held up at her eye level, the profile of his head turned so he can look at her directly out of one eye. “We know you can handle us. You’ve handled this disaster with a measure of grace and dignity so far.”

Josephine is a mixture of stunned at being addressed and terrified at how the Inquisitor’s daemon appeared so suddenly.

She immediately looks for Lavellan, who she finds still talking to the Empress’ ladies in waiting at the other side of the ballroom.

Josephine shores up her calm, drawing on Berlioz’ focus, and forces her shoulders straighter, looking the golden eye head on. Literally.

“Thank you, I’m afraid I don’t know how to address you.”

The eye slowly blinks, a clear film sliding over the yellow and black before sliding away.

“You may address me,” The varghest says, “I permit you to use my name, Ambassador. I am Mahanon. And  _you_  will have your work cut out for you tonight. I would wish you well if I believed in wishes. I prefer to believe in people, and both she and I believe in  _you_.”

Mahanon’s eye slides away from her and she can feel his attention leave her as he moves away, not giving her a chance to respond.

“That was,” Berlioz begins.

“Amazing,” Yvette says at the same time Josephine breathes out, “ _Intense_.”

“You have to tell me everything about this later, Josie,” Yvette demands, holding her arm out for her daemon to jump onto and then climb up to curl around her shoulders. “I must tell everyone back home!”

“Have you considered applying that enthusiasm to your gallery opening?” Berlioz suggests and Yvette’s daemon starts to laugh.

-

“ _If he comes back, tell him I have gone to the Conclave_ ,” is what she had left for him. Mahanon had returned to the Lavellans when he let his soul move and wander south. Unusual. By the time he tracks his clan down for information, he feels her moving across the sea. This is not how they migrate.

The Keeper’s spider daemon, Bram, tells him Ellana’s message.

Mahanon crosses the waking sea soon after, but he does not go to this Conclave. Instead he goes to Orlais to observe what the rest of the Templars and Mages are making of this temporary truce and offer of peace. Does it truly hold? Is this a trap?

If it is a trap, it is too late for him to do anything that could warn her.

Mahanon feels it when she - when something happens to her. He feels a strange pull in his chest that robs him of breath. His body spasms and he falls down the rocks he was climbing to get a better vantage point of the many camp sites and fortresses spawned along the golden plains of the Dirth. He falls, crashing into more rocks as something inside of him seizes and cracks and clenches, convulsing. It is as though he is being choked and drowned at once.

Where is she? Is this death? How can it not be death? And yet he remains? Why is it not yet over?  _What is she surviving_?

He has no method of tracking time that he can rely on to measure their suffering, but when it is over he immediately reorients himself to her and  _goes_. He goes with a single minded pursuit and a need in his chest that he doesn’t want to admit is fear and desperation. She is alright, he tells himself, otherwise he would feel more pain. She isn’t dead because he would not be here to suffer a world without her if she was. They would be together again, dust over plains reunited in the wind and snow and storms.

The pain lingers, but it is sporadic, it causes his forearms to buckle but he continues on.

By the time he’s traversed snow and mountains and sparse trees, he almost has no patience left for subtlety, but he finds her among Andrastian flags and Templars and he will not risk her death with his irritability and carelessness.

He finds her in the night and his blood boils when he thinks of how she has been treated. But she is forgiving and her hand touches his back. Fingertips to scales. It is enough, Mahanon thinks, it is enough.

She does not stop him from leaving, although parts of them want her to. It is not in their way, it is not how they function.

Both of them are secretive in their own ways, private and untrusting. Ellana does not wish to be seen by those she does not know, Mahanon has no taste for assumptions from those who see without knowing. Both of them take a certain pleasure in unexpected surprises sprung on others. Both of them are protective of the wound of his shape that is a proud thing they both refuse to let go, no matter how the world will beat and stare and cajole and whisper at.

They are a proud tree, standing tall among grass. The world will hurl axes and fire and wind and rain at them. They are determined to stand - scarred, burnt, warped, and uneven as they are.

Mahanon leaves her.

The next time he returns, she stands close to a Qunari and her hand slides over his scales easily even as he pushes past her towards the slaughterhouse of their history. They both have a taste for spitting the world’s poison back at it. Did she think, that when he felt her coming here, he would miss this?

Did she think he would leave her alone to walk the bloodied halls and fields of their ancestors?

He pays little attention to the formalities of this sham of a regime, gives the most honest olive branch he can to the Ambassador who will have to fix this travesty that Mahanon doesn’t have enough room in his heart and mind to care about, and goes outside to gather what information he can from these squealing pheasants and quail.

Some hours later he finds her climbing down from a trellis, displeased.

“Dead body?”

“There will be more,” She says, glancing down at him, “Do I want to know what you think?”

“I think you’re out of your depth and out of your mind,” Mahanon says immediately, “And the man you’ve been exchanging words with like touching blades is far beyond you. I don’t like him.”

“You haven’t even talked to him.”

“I don’t need to,” Mahanon says, laying down and feeling the cool grass against his belly and the thin scales at his joints. He lightly curls his tail and she moves to stand in the bend of it, leaning against his back. “He’s dangerous.”

“Sometimes, it is an enticing thing to be seen.”

“It is always a dangerous thing to be seen.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Danger can be survived,” Mahanon replies, “But I dislike the idea of handing someone a knife that can go all the way through.”

“Talk to him.”

“You talk to him enough for two, go find more dead bodies before I have to resort to making them for you.”


	128. Chapter 128

“I can’t believe your guardian is making me do this,” Bull says as he examines the scores on a tree. They look the appropriate size for a griffon that’s just learning to menace its territory, but they’re old. It’s entirely possible that the griffon took this forest as its own, or it left for a new place away from its fellow fledgling terrors. “It’s as though he doesn’t trust me with you. Frankly it should be the other way around.”

“He’s not  _making_  you do anything,” Ellana says, floating behind him on her back, an entirely frivolous display of magic that Bull told her to do because at least this way he can tie a rope around her ankle and tie it to his waist so he wont lose her. Ellana thinks this is entirely amusing, as if she couldn’t just transfigure the rope into growing longer to allow her to wander off without him noticing.

Bull had asked her if she’d really betray his trust like that and Ellana sulked in silence for all of ten minutes before going through his pockets to find his compass, his map, and some rune bones Stitches forced him to take when they split up to tackle the numerous and truly unnecessary challenges Ellana’s mentor put in their way to prevent them from taking his favorite - and only, therefore also  _least favorite_  - student from his care. She’s now taken to trying to figure out if she can trick Bull’s compass using magic.

“No, Trevelyan is making us all do this  _properly_ , because she was raised a noble and is annoying about this shit and proper everything,” Bull says. “We have plenty of mages on our team.”

“But I’m your favorite mage,” Ellana says.

“Not by the longest shot.”

“Your favorite  _elf_  mage.”

“No.”

Ellana huffs and throws one of the rune bones at the back of his head as he examines a series of broken branches - also old, new branches growing around the old, and moss and worn down points marking approximately how old it is. A spring or so, maybe. Bull bends down to pick the bone up.

“You could just  _not_  listen to him,” Ellana says, “I mean. I’m here, aren’t I? Just say that you’re going to do the thing later. But for now you got distracted along the way by other things and I just went along with it.”

“How did you sneak out of your literal ivory tower of bones?”

“Bones, the Iron Bull, as you may guess, are not the best sort of building material,” Ellana says, bumping into his back and then looping her arms loosely around his neck, resting her chin on his shoulder and nuzzling close. “Also, as if Solas could stop me. I’m not a witchling anymore! I’m a full grown mage! With magic and things! He can’t stop me!”

“Common law says you can’t take a person’s apprentice without that person’s permission,” Bull says, walking towards the sound of running water.

“Since when did any of us care about common law? Besides, I don’t remember anyone going through this much trouble to get Dorian to come questing.”

“That’s because Pavus doesn’t have a mentor.”

“Untrue, we disgraced his mentor publicly. I don’t see any of us asking his permission to bring Dorian along questing, though. Or asking his permission to bring Dorian along to disgrace and overthrow him.”

“That’s a different story.”

“Semantics,” Ellana lets go of him, drifting alongside him now, head on the same level as his, “So. What’s the plan for catching and taming the griffon? You’re no ranger, the Iron Bull, I don’t think animal taming is in your many, many expertises. Is that the right plural? Expertise? Expertises?”

“The plan is to knock the thing out, drag it back to your mentor, and hope it wakes up at his feet and claws his face off.”

“If your plan was to piss him off the entire time, what was the point in jumping through all the hoops?”

“Semantics. It’d technically be complete,” Bull says.

“I like the way you think,” Ellana says, nodding to herself, reaching down to return the compass, map, and rune bones to his pockets. “That said, how do you plan to knock the griffon out if it’s flying above us?”

“It’s  _what_?”

-

“You’ve done  _what.”_ It’s not a statement, not when it’s said like that.

“Caught a mermaid,” Bull says at the same time Blackwall says, “He got hit on by a mermaid.”

“I’m pretty sure the mermaid thinks she’s caught him, honestly,” Varric says.

Cassandra looks between the three of them, decides that  none of them can be trusted, and turns to Evelyn and Cullen who have washed their hands of this situation and have gone back to looking over fortification plans for their new fortress at the Storm Coast.

“As long as it’s not unwilling,” Josephine says and Cassandra turns to her, betrayed. Josephine looks a little sheepish, “Well, Cassandra, I think the most important thing is that the mermaid is here of her own free will. It’s both bad practice and bad luck to take a mermaid, unwilling, from the sea.”

“I know that Josephine, but they shouldn’t have brought a mermaid here at all,” Cassandra says. Cassandra turns back to the three men in front of her. “Put her back where you found her. Her shiver might be looking for her. What if they bring disaster on us? What if this is a trap?”

“I don’t think that we can’t do that, Seeker,” Varric says. “You didn’t see this mermaid. She was entirely beyond enthusiastic to land in the Iron Bull’s rippling arms.”

“I didn’t see signs of more than one, I don’t think she’s got anyone who’s going to curse us or anything,” Blackwall says.

“What did you want me to do? Throw her  _back_?” Bull asks, “I’m not going to be  _rude_  to the mermaid flinging herself out of the water at me. That seems like more bad luck.”

“Has anyone  _talked_  to the mermaid?”

“Mostly she seems really excited to be out of the water,” Bull says, “And she thinks my eyepatch is neat.”

“Neat?”

“Her words, not mine.”

Cassandra turns back to Josephine who just smiles.

“It looks like we’ll have to work on getting some sort of water container for our new friend.”


	129. Chapter 129

“Take a plant,” The woman says and shoves a small potted plant - plants of a non-poisonous nature are not Zevran’s forte, so the most he can say about it is that it’s small and rather charming - into his hands and gestures for him sit at the wooden bench and table just outside her house.

She waits until Zevran has taken a seat at the bench with the small potted plant, then smiles, turns around and walks back into her house.

Zevran turns to the Iron Bull who is also seated at the table. The Iron Bull glances up at him and shrugs a shoulder, “Don’t argue with a witch.”

“I’m not a witch!” The woman yells from inside the house. “Don’t classify people against their will! It’s rude and I know you know better!”

Bull rolls his eye, “Don’t argue with the stubborn hermit who lives in the woods.”

“Better!”

“I take it your quest to find Surana did not end well,” Zevran says, holding the potted plant up to his eye level to inspect it closer. It’s probably not magical in nature. It isn’t moving and has no teeth that he can tell. Unless this plant is very, very sneaky. In which case Zevran appreciates the challenge. He can’t tell if it’s any different from the rows of little potted plants that dot the landscape around the house, seemingly on every surface - even on top of other plants.

“We found her,” Bull says, gaze falling to the knife he’s sharpening in his large hands. Well. It looks like a knife in his hands but it’s more like a short sword, really. A sword of the proper length for a dwarf, perhaps.

“And? How did my old friend greet you? Not well, most likely. She has never cared for visitors to her home.” Zevran is usually thrown off the moat via spell. He doesn't mind, Surana also enchants the moat to be comfortably warm whenever falls in.

“I didn’t realize that Hermit From the Forest Lavellan and Witch Surana had a history,” The Iron Bull says.

Zevran laughs, “My good friend, the lovely and ornery Surana has a history with everybody and everything. Tell me, how did it go?”

“Well. We explained the situation. And she was as confused and baffled as the rest of the continent, and then we left to go fight a dragon.”

“With Surana? Was the dragon Morrigan, by any chance?”

“That far north? Probably not. I’m pretty sure the current Witch of the Wild’s is still down south,” Bull muses, “In any case, the dragon is now dead and I don’t think Witch Surana would have let us kill her friend.”

“One never knows with those two,” Zevran muses, “For all you know it wasn’t even a real dragon.”

“I’m pretty sure it was a real dragon.”

“All of us were sure that Evelyn would have broken the curse by now, but here we are. Two weeks until a year is up. Which is why Leliana has sent me to find you, to see if you succeeded.”

“Well you can tell her no,” Bull says, “And that the Chargers and I will be staying here until the next month has passed so we can avoid dealing with that mess and the following two weeks of Evelyn and Cullen being  _Evelyn and Cullen_  in peace.”

“Smart move,” Zevran nods, and glances back towards the house when some odd bright lights start to shine through the windows. “Should I be concerned about that?”

Bull shrugs his shoulders again, “Nah. How are the other groups doing?”

“Well, from what I understand Pavus’ party returned a month into the curse and was summarily dispatched again, to which they returned another month later, so on and so forth. Each time Pavus attempted to explain how this could be very easily solved if Rutherford and Trevelyan would just look each other in the face and be honest.”

“Let me guess, he was kicked out of Skyhold.”

“Many, many more times. I think he’s currently locked himself in his study and refuses to leave. Sera is bringing him meals.”

“And how did Sera’s thing go?”

“She refused to leave,” Zevran says, crossing his legs, tapping a finger lightly against the plant’s leaves to watch them spring back up again. “And the lovely Inquisitor looks like she’s either going to faint or set the entire continent on fire.”

“That sucks,” The Iron Bull says and Zevran nods.

“I think I’m supposed to bring you back,” Zevran says.

“I’d rather not go back until this entire shit-show is over,” Bull replies, examining the knife and handing it to Zevran.

Zevran looks the knife - really a short sword - over and then holds his other hand out for the whetstone and cloth. The Iron Bull hands them over and Zevran pushes the little plant towards him to make room. He begins to work on the blade.

“Finished!” A voice calls from inside the house and Zevran looks up to watch Hermit Living in the Woods Lavellan come out of her house carrying a large glass bottle filled with pink smoke.

She flings an arm out at the Iron Bull, “That’s not for you! Give him back his plant!”

“He’s busy right now,” The Iron Bull says and Lavellan huffs, bringing the large bottle of pink smoke over to them and setting it on the table.

“What is that?” Bull asks.

“It’s what is needed,” Lavellan replies cryptically. It seems appropriate for someone of the magical inclination, Zevran thinks. One is simply not just magical unless they are being cryptic.

“Don’t argue with the hermit living in the woods,” Zevran says, “Do I just take this back to Leliana to give to Evelyn?”

“What? No, this is for  _me_ ,” Lavellan says. “ _You_  will take  _me_  back to Leliana so I can talk to Evelyn.”

“ _What_?” The Iron Bull stares at Lavellan.

Lavellan smiles and claps her hands together, “We’re going on a trip!”

Zevran gives the Iron Bull a sympathetic look, “It looks like, my friend, you’re coming back with me to watch the next two weeks unfold after all.”

The Iron Bull puts his head in his hand and grumbles.


	130. Chapter 130

“Ellana, I’m formally inviting you to join my guild, The Inquisition,” Evelyn says and Ellana perks up, sitting up straighter and leaning forward.

“Really?” And then she pauses, blinks, tilting her head, “Wait - we’re already in the Pact together.”

“Yes, but this is different, it’s a Guild.”

Ellana, predictably, does not seem to quite understand the difference.

“A guild is a select few people,” Evelyn explains, “Who are invited into this group with access to special privileges afforded to them by being, generally, a large group with bargaining rights, and they compete against other guilds - if they  _want to_  - for prizes and fame and such. Mostly the Inquisition is just a good way for all of us to keep tabs on each other and help each other with our various endeavors.”

“But that sounds exactly like the Pact.”

“I’m the leader of the Inquisition.”

“You’re also the leader of the Pact!”

“No - that’s. I’m the Commander of the Pact, Ellana. The Pact is a military force brought together to fight Elder Dragons. The Inquisition was put together to fight pirates and bandits and people who are being tits to other people. And it’s also a way for Kaaras to hover over the people he worries about from a distance. Think of guilds as Charr war bands, but bigger and more flexible.”

Ellana slowly nods and then wrinkles her nose, “So, it’s like family?”

“Exactly!”

Ellana blinks and then looks up at Evelyn with large, sad eyes, “You mean I wasn’t your family before?”

“Oh, you’ve done it now,” Maxwell says, “I hate to interrupt, but I think I’m going to have to. You’re about to make my favorite Sylvari cry, Evelyn. Shame on you. These aren’t happy tears.”

Evelyn shoots her cousin a frantic look for help and Maxwell smiles, walking into Evelyn’s office and clapping a hand to Ellana’s shoulder.

“Ellana, what my cousin means to say is that she wants to make it official to everyone in the entire world that you’re our family by making you a Chief within our guild, answering only to Evelyn our Inquisitor, myself as Seneschal, and then Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen as Advisors.”

Ellana’s eyes go round and shiny in the way they get whenever she’s excited and incredibly awed by something.

“That sounds very grand and impressive, Maxwell,” Ellana says, standing up and saluting, “Wow, gosh, I hope I don’t disappoint you! That sounds like an awful lot of responsibility.”

Ellana suddenly tears up again, “I’m so happy that you trust me with this. Oh, Evelyn! Maxwell!”

Ellana throws her arms around Maxwell and starts crying, “Thank you for making me official family!”

Maxwell pats her back, “Thank you for accepting. I’m hoping that’s an acceptance. Because the Iron Bull and the other Chiefs and high rank members of the Inquisition have put together a welcome party for you back at our Guild Hall and if you just turned us down that’s going to be awkward.”

Evelyn sighs in relief, standing up and approaching the sobbing Sylvari still clinging onto her cousin. Evelyn pets Ellana’s back, “Oh come on, Ellana. Please don’t cry. It’s such a happy occasion. You’ll frighten everyone else to bits if you show up looking like we just broke the news that someone died.”

-

“Have you found my sister?”

The Iron Bull barely stops himself in time from striking out at the voice just above him. He looks up and sees Mahanon hanging from a branch, upside down and looking much more haggard than when he saw the Sylvari last.

“Yes, she’s with Cole right now,” Bull answers, “He’s not doing so well.”

“I know of him, he is strongly connected to the Dream. I imagine he is in much pain. But my sister - she is safe? Yes?”

“She isn’t quite  _cherry_ ,” Bull says, “But she’ll live. She’ll pull through.”

Mahanon nods, and then drops, flipping in the air to land in a crouch next to Bull. The Sylvari draws close, eyeing the area around them.

“Were you attacked?” Bull asks and Mahanon shakes his head.

“I’ve been on my own. Mostly. I was with a group of Pale Reavers, then a few other Sylvari I found and sent back to the Reavers whenever I found them. But I’ve been alone.”

“You don’t trust the Pact.”

Mahanon narrows his eyes, “After how they’ve almost unanimously decided to cut their losses and leave my kin and I to burn and rot and suffer? Do you blame me?”

“No,” Bull says, “But you could trust Evelyn. Maxwell.  _Me_.”

“If I could find you,” Mahanon replies. “I’ve been looking for Ellana. Tell me honestly, what is her condition?”

“Tell me about yours, first,” Bull says and Mahanon’s face twists, sour.

“I lost my partner,” Mahanon says the words harsh and raw in his throat, “When we came to the Silverwastes, we fell through a collapsed outcropping. He pushed me out of the way. He died.”

That explains the absence of the fern hound at Mahanon’s side. Bull holds out his arm and Mahanon slowly collapses into the Iron Bull’s side, face pressed into his chest. Bull lightly drapes his arm over Mahanon’s narrow back.

“I’m sorry. He was a loyal friend to you,” Bull says.

“He is safe, now,” Mahanon says.

“You’ve been out here alone, then?” Bull asks when Mahaon’s breathing is less strained, more natural.

“I made a new friend,” Mahanon says, pulling back a little, looking up at Bull and smirking, just a little. “I wanted to show her to my sister.”

“Oh?”

Mahanon’s teeth flash and he clicks his tongue.

Bull’s ears flick up when he hears rustling from the trees above. He looks up and sees a brilliant red and black wyvern glide through the branches and drop, wings flapping, onto the ground a few yards from them. The wyvern paws at the ground, large bulky head raised in question.

“This is Kore,” Mahanon says, “She’s a fire wyvern. And she’s been teaching me how to glide through the trees.”

“Has she also been teaching you to breathe fire?” Bull asks.

“Take me to my sister, and if I don't like what I see, you’ll find out.”


	131. Chapter 131

Lavellan wakes up to sunlight through pale pink curtains and groans, rolling over, groaning louder when it pulls at the bruises on her right hip and upper right leg.

Bull grunts when she rolls into him, shoving her face into his chest and willing sunlight and pink curtains to go away.

“They’re all we have left,” Bull reminds her, not even needing to be fully conscious to know why she’s so miserable at whatever time it is in the morning. “And they’re only pink because you were too lazy to do two loads of laundry.”

“You can’t possibly be blaming them pink curtains on me,” Ellana says, through it sounds garbled when spoken into his skin she trusts him to know exactly what she means.

Bull reaches over her and presses the heel of his palm against the largest bruise spreading out over the back of her right thigh and Ellana rolls further into him, wedging herself into the dip made by his body and the mattress.

“Should’ve taken care of that last night,” Bull says.

“I was busy trying to solve the problem of our terrible curtains last night,” She says.

“Kadan, I appreciate your dedication to trying to make our living situation seem any sort of normal and average to the regular passerby - I do - but I’d rather you took care of yourself.”

“By trying to keep our domestic life under control via home decorating and tidying I help keep my own emotions and mental stress levels under check, it’s an outlet for me to exert control onto this one part of my life that I am able to do so without repercussions,” Ellana says.

Bull laughs, a sleepy low sound that shakes the bed. Ellana takes this opportunity to further shove herself underneath him to escape the pink light that she can feel on the back of her head. Pink. The worst shade of pink. An accidental pink.

“You rehearse that one in front of Leliana?” Bull asks, “Alright, fair. I prefer you’d take care of yourself  _physically_  at the moment.”

“Pot, kettle,” Ellana says, hitting his leg with her foot when he pokes at another bruise, “Good news is that they’re not as bad as the other stuff.”

“The other stuff, meaning the stuff that’s healing?”

“Yeah, that stuff.”

“I’d hope so, the other stuff was pretty bad.”

“Bad news,” Ellana says, “We’re broke and I refuse to dip into our savings anymore than we already have.”

“We have savings?”

“I refuse to dip into the savings you think I don’t know about, and the savings  _you_  don’t know about - I can’t believe you don’t know about them.” Ellana sits up slowly, squinting down at him as he tries to turn away from her, slowly raising his good arm over his head to lay across his eyes. His other arm is awkwardly stretched out over the bed and in a purple cast. “No, you wake up for this, international spy. What do you mean  _we have savings_? You’re wanted by the Qun, you should’ve found out about the savings by now.”

“Maybe I juts didn’t look into it because I trust you,  _wife_ ,” Bull says.

“Gross and lazy,” Ellana says, sitting up on her knees and then slowly moving so she’s sitting down with her legs outstretched. She throws the covers back and glares at the bandage around her ankle. And the ankle monitor. “I feel gross and lazy. How long are we supposed to be under house arrest for?”

“Until Evelyn’s blood pressure is somewhere near plausible deniability for Kaaras to clear her for field duty,” Bull says, “So. Forever.”

“Gross and unnecessary,” Ellana says. “Get up.”

“What for?” Bull asks as Ellana presses her hand to his stomach and pushes at him.

Ellana turns to the bedside table and picks up her tablet.

“We’re buying new curtains.”

“The accidental pink ones aren’t that bad.”

“With this decor? With this duvet cover?  _With our white finish_? Bull. Please. Bull.  _Please._ Behave like the man I married and love, don’t sink to this level of banal disregard,” Ellana says, “Come on. Show me some support.”

-

“You know, when you think about it, the universe could not have matched the Iron Bull with anyone better in a thousand years and infinite more possibilities,” Dorian says as soon as Evelyn’s caught him up on the recent series of unfolding events surrounding Ellana and Bull’s house being under constant attack and ambush.

“How so?” Evelyn asks, slowly releasing her grip on her stress ball. If she holds it too long at a certain pressure it will break and she’s gotten so many judgmental looks from everyone whenever they see her with a new stress ball, gadget, and or -  _whatever_  to suffer her rapidly increasing grip strength.

“Well, the Iron Bull is a former Qunari elite spy,” Dorian says, “He’s pansexual, has scores of lovers all over Thedas, loves interior decorating, and has hidden depths that have hidden depths.”

“Okay.”

“And we all wondered how the hell he decided Ellana Lavellan, public school teacher and volunteer librarian, would be the best person to get married to given the fact that she’s, one, asexual, two, a public servant who - by all rights - should not be someone he’d ever meet in a  _million years._  To this day I still don’t understand how they met long enough for either of them to decide they’d make good friends. Don’t get mer wrong. I love that woman. That woman is a fantastic riot on legs. She is a natural disaster, a sublime - if you will -, made flesh. I like to set her on people I don’t like. The amount of bafflement that she can pull out of one situation is astounding. Breath taking. Magical. Confounding in its own special way.”

“Get on with it,” Evelyn says, because Dorian could expound on this for days if she lets him get too into it.

“But now it makes sense,” Dorian says, “ _She's got hidden depths to her hidden depths, too.”_

 _“_ She's a formal international crime lord, is what you mean.”

“Harsh words, she was mentored by an international crime lord. She never stepped into it officially from what you’ve all dug up,” Dorian says, “And then she used her crime lord knowledge for good to turn herself into a public servant. Regardless of those semantics - no wonder the two are so perfect for each other. They aren’t normal and domestic. They’re a literal action film in between takes. In the middle of script edits. I’m surprised Varric hasn’t sent this off for copy yet.”

“I think he’s trying to, honestly,” Evelyn says, carefully squeezing her fist around the green stress ball in her hand.

“International spy meet international crime lord,” Dorian claps his hands together gleefully, “Maker, it’s perfect. They’re perfect. Aside from all the other reasons why they’re perfect together, this is the one that takes it.”

“Do you often spend time contemplating how the Iron Bull and Ellana are perfect for each other?”

“Vivienne, Josephine, and I spend copious amounts of time wondering at how everyone in our lives have fallen into such neat and cliche pairs and groups,” Dorian answers, “It should be mathematically improbable and yet we’ve managed to roll the perfect dice to get everyone with who they should be. We like to calculate how it could all go wrong. But Ellana being an international crime lord protege never once factored into it. I’m embarrassed for us. You’d think an Orlesian headmistress, an Antivan ambassador, and a Tevinter revolutionary would be more creative.”


	132. Chapter 132

“Cullen,” Mia says as they watch her children run off onto Cullen’s property, chasing after Blackwall. This is about the only time Cullen’s ever seen Blackwall not be stoic or in appropriate guard dog attention.

The Iron Bull watches from the roof of the house, content to watch until such a time he feels like entering the fray. The large cat is very good with children. Though he prefers to do the chasing of them, rather than be chased. It helps that he’s also very large.

“Yes, Mia?” Cullen asks as she braces her youngest one on her hip. Cullen holds out his finger for the baby to grab and the baby, predictably, shoves her face into her mothers neck and ignores him.

Cullen is somewhat mollified by this by the fact that Lavellan, curled around his neck, smacks his face with her tail as she uses his shoulders as her personal perch for watching the running and screaming children.

“You promised me,” Mia says, eyes narrowed and Cullen resists the urge to squirm.

“Promised you what, Mia?”

“You promised me that when you left the Templars to live out in the woods by yourself you wouldn’t become some crazy hermit,” Mia says. “Your cats have  _multiplied_.”

“They have not,” Cullen says, “Two is hardly  _multiplying_. Besides, Lavellan was a rescue.”

Lavellan meows very loudly into his ear as if to protest this.

“That is not  _two cats_ ,” Mia says, “Two dozen, maybe.”

Cullen turns to examine his house.

“I didn’t take them in, Mia, I swear,” Cullen says. He’s a grown man and he can have as many cats as he wants to as long as he can do right by them, he thinks. He shouldn’t be defending himself and his lifestyle choices to his sister. But he also didn’t actually adopt this many cats.

“Then why are they all over your house?”

“My cats took in more cats,” Cullen says and it sounds absolutely ridiculous but it’s true.

Skinner and Grim have joined Bull in watching the children on the roof. One of the hanging planters starts swaying and Cullen sees Dalish’ pale head pop out of it, ears pricked before disappearing again.

There are still three cats missing.

“Your life is being run by your cats,” Mia says, “Cullen. I know that you must be having a hard time adjusting to being a private citizen, but  _please_. Taking orders from  _your cats_?”

There’s some teasing in her tone but he can also hear the worry. It’s taken him a long time to understand that worry, to remember how siblings work and how family works and how to let that in.

“I take orders from my sister,” Cullen says, turning and giving her a wry smile. Mia shakes her head and sighs.

“Cullen, Cullen, Cullen, what are we going to do with you?” Mia says, exasperated, echoing their parents as she walks towards the house. “You and your dog and your many many cats.”

Cullen spares a moment to be incredibly grateful that Lavellan’s wolf friends aren’t around.

“Well for starters,” Cullen says as Lavellan jumps down from his shoulders, and then onto the porch railing, raising her front paws up and meowing for Dalish, “You could stop dragging me in all of our group texts. And stop sending emoticons you know I don’t get.”

“Get a new phone, Maker - you’re the only person I know with a flip phone, Cullen. Even mom and dad have  _keyboards_  on theirs,” Mia says letting herself into his house. Krem darts out between her legs as she opens the screen door, rushing past Cullen and disappearing into the bushes lining the house. “You’re rounding all these cats up later. I’m sending a picture to everyone. You’re now the cat sibling.  You used to be the veteran sibling, you’re now the country cat sibling. Congratulations.”

-

“Cullen?”

“It’s open,” Cullen calls out, grunting as he manages to get the giant bag of cat food back into the pantry. He should really invest in some sort of large bin like he did for Blackwall’s dog food, but knowing the cats they’d figure a way into that. Might as well just stick with the bags. At least with the bags he can tell if they’ve gotten in or not.

He hears the screen door open as Josephine comes inside, the voice and hesitant footsteps of another person following her.

Cullen gets everything back into place in the pantry. He should be a better host, but it’s Josephine and she is a natural host wherever she is. Even in other people’s homes. He figures that whoever is with her is taken care of.

Cullen leaves the pantry, making sure to close the door firmly behind him. The Iron Bull watches him from underneath the kitchen table. Cullen gives the large cat a  _look_.

“No,” He says and the Iron Bull just flicks an ear and pretends to look away.

Cullen goes into his front room, resigned to the fact that Bull will figure out a way into the pantry for cat treats and cat food to distribute to his ever growing hoard of companions. Josephine is petting Blackwall’s ears as the dog’s tail thumps the floor.

“Cullen,” Josephine smiles at him, “Sorry to intrude.”

“It’s alright, Josephine,” Cullen says, “Not much to intrude on.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Cullen turns to the woman next to Josephine. She smiles at him and extends her hand, “I’m Evelyn. Josephine and I sometimes work together. Thank you for letting me come over.”

Her grip is firm and steady, Cullen nods at her, “Not a problem. I mean it. I really don’t have much by way of - well,  _anything_  to intrude on. Just ask my sisters. It’s their favorite subject to nag about. You’re an ambassador like Josephine?”

“Oh no,” Evelyn waves her hand, “I work with outreach programs and non-profits. I was telling Josephine about how I’m trying to start a new program with some of the VA clinics and some of the other centers I’m working with right now.”

“Evelyn wants to start a program where shelter animals are brought in as comfort to the patients,” Josephine says, “Since it would help both the animals and the patients. But she needs to prove to the clinics and hospitals  _first_  with some trial runs. I thought it would help if she could talk to you about how having Bull and Blackwall have helped you since you retired from service, and perhaps - if you’re willing - she could borrow Blackwall and one of your cats to bring to a clinic?”

Cullen blinks, surprised, “That sounds really - that sounds really kind. Of course - however I can help. Leliana and Josephine both did me a great service when they encouraged me to take in Blackwall.”

They had signed him up as a volunteer with a shelter, first. They figured he’d get used to animals instead of people better. They weren’t wrong.

Cullen gestures for the women to come deeper into the house, Blackwall trotting alongside Josephine.

“I suppose you should probably meet one of the cats,” Cullen says, “And of course, now that I want one of them to be around they’ve all managed to disappear.”

He sticks his head into the kitchen and of course the Iron Bull isn’t anywhere in sight, and the pantry door is just as Cullen left it.

Josephine and Evelyn take seats at his kitchen table and Cullen opens a cabinet to get glasses.

“ _Lavellan_ ,” He exhales under his breath when he finds  _a cat_  inside his cabinet.

Lavellan stares at him as if  _he’s_  the one to have the audacity to be where he shouldn’t be. Cullen quickly picks her up even as she meows and twists in protest. He sets her down on the floor, her tail straight up as she looks up at him with incredible reproach. Cullen ignores her and gets the glasses.

“She’s beautiful,” Evelyn says, and Lavellan quickly curls around his legs in an attempt to either hide or trip him. Cullen quickly bends down and scoops her up into the crook of his arm, pinning her as he gets water.

“She’s  _something_ ,” Cullen says, “I’d offer to let you take her but she’d probably make a break for it and get into something worse than the glassware.”

“I’ll take her,” Josephine says, standing up and clicking her tongue as she comes closer to take Lavellan from Cullen’s arm, “Hello Lavellan, do you remember me? We met at Leliana’s house when you were still living there.”

Lavellan  _purrups_  as Josephine takes her, immediately snuggling into Josephine’s arms. Cullen follows Josephine to the table, setting the glasses down.

“Lavellan was a stray,” Cullen says and Lavellan meows loudly in protest, “Leliana found her in Kirkwall and then brought her to me.”

Evelyn smiles, arms leaning on the table as she watches Josephine and Lavellan, “She really is a beautiful cat. You’ve had her long?”

“A little under a year,” Cullen says, sitting down, reaching out to play with one of Lavellan’s feet. Lavellan’s tail bats at his hand and she squirms out of Josephine’s arms to walk over the table to bump her head against his chin. She sits down, tail curled around herself as she stares at Evelyn. Cullen feels something large bump against his legs and he doesn’t even have to look down -

“Josephine, your favorite beast of a cat is here to say hello,” Cullen says. Even as he says it Josephine jumps, looking down before laughing.

“What are you  _feeding him_?” She says, pushing her chair back and bending down, “Oh, look at you!”

The Iron Bull makes his appearance moments later as he climbs onto Josephine’s lap and then onto the table. He slowly sits down and closes his eye purring as Josephine gushes over him.

“That’s a cat?” Evelyn says and Cullen snorts.

“Probably,” He says, “He’s very friendly.”

Evelyn reaches her hand out towards the Iron Bull for inspection. Bull’s ears flick towards her and he turns to examine her hand before pushing his head underneath her fingers, eye closing again.

Lavellan, not to be out done by her larger counter part, leaves Cullen to push her face against Evelyn’s and meow plaintively for attention.

“I don’t think you’re going to get any questions asked today,” Cullen muses as Evelyn finds herself attempting to please two cats, “But I’m sure that you can use this experience in some way.”


	133. Chapter 133

Since Mordrem the sylvari have lost something about themselves, as a whole, as a race, as a culture. It’s not just the unsettling rearrangement of their origin and purpose - to go from thinking they were the land’s answer to the Dragons, to knowing that they were the Dragon’s answer to the resistance of the land - but it is something about the way they interact with the world.

Bull isn’t sure if it’s because of the radical shift in their shared Dream, some underlying hive shift powerful enough to effect all of them regardless of how distant they are from their Dream of Dreams, or something closer to the surface. But something in their eyes has changed.

Before, Bull would consider one of the most quintessential parts of the sylvari was their eyes. It was they way they looked at people, at things. Like everything is new, uncertain, every little thing an adventure. Even Nightmare Court, even the Soundless, even their Firstborn had that look. It was a way of looking at things like a cub, a child - curiosity and imagination, a brightness to see infinite possibility. And with that brightness, a slight touch of childish naivety.

It is not that the sylvari are childish or naive, no. Each sylvari is different, each one unique, no two growing or blossoming or sprouting or whatever it is the sylvari call it, the same way. Take a look at Caithe and Faolain. It is something about the way they interact with the world, look at it, that suggests those things, though. It’s just some quality in their eyes, the way they look at you, at things.

Bull isn’t good with words as much as he’s good with watching people, understanding the pieces of them.

And he understands that this quality of freshness, newness, has been tainted. Spoiled. Darkened. Tarnished.

The sylvari are frightened, they are angry, they are tired, and they are beaten. Bull is furious and ashamed to know that this is, though not mostly - definitely in part -, because of how the rest of Tyria has responded to the revelation of Mordrem’s hand in the sylvari birth.

You would think, Bull muses, people would have learned better by now not to isolate an entire race because of actions they cannot help. The world is too small and too big for such narrow minded hatred.

Bull watches as Ellana and her brother, newly reunited, huddle close together listening as Maxwell regales them with stories of the Auric Basin.

Their parties had met as they were leaving the Brink; Maxwell’s group was tired and injured, Mahanon and Ellana are on a mission to return to the Grove to recover and reorient themselves.

Bull and Dorian have been watching over the two sylvari - careful to block them from distrustful and angry stares, moving them along fast past hostile Pact survivors and outposts, even if the supplies were needed, even when night was falling.

The two sylvari lean into each other and then closer to Maxwell. Bull has to hand it to the man, he’s very good at people.

Maxwell’s story is bringing the two sylvari out of the dazed and high-walled silence and fear that they’ve retreated behind. He’s bringing back something of the two people Bull knew from a few months ago back to the surface. It won’t last, but it’s a start.

“And you wouldn’t believe it,” Maxwell says, gesturing grandly with a sweep of his arms, “Evelyn, my dear cousin and our favorite Guild leader and Pact Commander and Priory Magister,  _was a little brown bunny_.”

Mahanon snorts and Ellana wrinkles her nose.

“How did you know it was Evelyn?” Mahanon asks, “You said you were unconscious and when you woke up a rabbit had revived you. What makes you think it was the Commander?”

“Oh, Mahanon,” Maxwell says, shaking his head fondly before taking a quick drink of water, “Ye of so little faith! I would no my dear cousin anywhere! And her look of consternated concern and high strung anxiety translates so well across multiple forms. And that nose? I always knew she had a little bunny nose.”

Ellana laughs under her breath and Mahanon rolls his eyes, a carefree gesture that Bull hasn’t seen the man do since before this whole mess.

“And then what?” Ellana asks, laying a hand on Mahanon’s arm before he can poke more holes into Maxwell’s outrageous story.

Mahanon reaches to his side and puts his own hand on Kore’s broad snout as the wyvern sleepily curls around the two sylvari, thick club like tail happily wiggling.

“Well, there were about six of us from the Vigil all down there and I have no idea how we got there or when, but we went about protecting Commander Bunny in this little dungeon room with Mordremoth wolves,” Maxwell says, “The entire time Evelyn kept squeaking at us and I think she was trying to tell us to do stuff but it was just  _adorable._ I’m not so sure the Mordrem would agree though. They were eager to get their teeth into her little bunny flesh. Did you know.”

Maxwell stops, looks around, and then gestures for the two to lean in closer. When the two oblige, Maxwell stage whispers, “Sometimes  _she had to play dead_.”

Mahanon and Ellana both slap hands over each other’s mouths before they can burst out laughing, clinging to each other as they try to hold it in.

“It’s good to see them like this,” Dorian says, slowly sitting down next to Bull.

“How’re the ribs?”

“How’s the leg?”

“Good enough to get these two out of here,” Bull says, “Compared to this mess, somehow, the rest of Tyria seems like a cakewalk.”

“The rest of Tyria seems like a much needed vacation when I think of what we must do,” Dorian says, eyes closing as he gingerly arranges himself. There aren’t enough field medics to go around, not by a long shot.

And most tend to be wary of them, given that they’re traveling with two sylvari.

Ideally things will be easier now that they’ve got Maxwell’s group with them. Maxwell is too stubborn and too dangerous - in so many ways - for people to be foolish around.

“How is she?” Dorian asks and Bull flicks his ears. Dorian snorts and then grimaces. “Ellana. How is she?”

Bull lowers and raises a shoulder, “Holding together admirably. Mahanon helps.”

“ _You_  help,” Dorian says, “She wouldn’t have made it to Mahanon without you.”

“Selling yourself short, Pavus? Did you get your head hit, too?”

“I’m being realistic,” Dorian says, “The Iron Bull you are what is keeping and what has kept her willing and able to move on. If you doubt that then I wish there was a way to show you the way it looks from mine, or anyone else’s, perspective whenever she looks at you. Like you’re the last good thing in the world. And you’re inexplicably - to her -  _hers_.”


	134. Chapter 134

Krem wakes up, is jerked out of sleep really, by a series of loud slamming doors from all around him. Doors from what Krem figures is above him, doors from behind him, doors from in front of him, doors to the side of him. Krem isn’t so sure which is up and down because he jumps, rolling off the sofa he’d been stretched out on and crashing down hard onto the floor.

He’s half convinced that the Chief’s house is being raided, or at the very least  _invaded_. He wipes drool off the corner of his mouth, bleary eyed and gets up, mind feeling like a dozen scrambled eggs splattered over a kitchen via unsecured blender.

“Ghost is an early bird,” Bull says from the hallway and Krem sits up, pulling himself up on the ottoman that he’d been using to extend the couch while sleeping. He looks over the edge of the couch and catches a glimpse of the Iron Bull walking past towards the kitchen, looking perfectly at ease.

“She’s an early bird,” Krem deadpans, swiping his phone from underneath the coffee table - fucking eight percent battery - and flinches back from the bright screen, “ _It’s five in the morning_.”

“She’s an  _early bird_ , Aclassi, who am I to tell the ghost to sleep in?” Bull calls out, “You still take your coffee like you’re a garbage disposal?”

“Cream and sugar doesn’t ruin coffee you spartan bastard,” Krem says, groaning as he rolls back onto the couch, “It’s  _Sunday_.”

All of the window shutters and curtains fly open within seconds. The sun isn’t even out yet. Well, it is, but it’s not even  _bright_. It’s  _barely up_. Even the  _sun_  doesn’t want to be awake.

Krem drags a blanket over his face and wills himself back to sleep.

Except the floorboards are creaking and the shades are rattling.

“I said,” the Chief’s voice is so close and Krem jumps up, swinging wildly and then glaring as the Chief calmly dodges his hands, “She’s an early bird, Aclassi. And she also believes in eating together so no one gets to eat until everyone is awake and together. Take your garbage.”

“Creamer and sugar don’t make coffee garbage,” Krem repeats, taking the large mug from the man. For all that the Iron Bull complains about Krem’s coffee choices, he's never failed to make it exactly the way Krem likes it. Even at the right temperature, too.

The Chief is a huge softy, and the fact that he babies the ghost that haunts his house is just another tally mark on a huge list.

Krem scrubs a hand over his face, takes a sip of coffee, and gets to his feet.

“Besides, you’re the one who puts caramel, whipped cream, marshmallows, and chocolate cookie crumbs on his hot chocolate,” Krem points out, standing straight at attention for the ghost’s inspection.

The stairs creak in a way that sounds like someone dancing up and down them.

“Atta’boy,” the Iron Bull nods approvingly, slapping a hand to Krem’s back. Krem is ready for it doesn’t stagger.

“How awake is awake?” Krem asks, “I gotta wash my face or something for it to count?”

Krem puts down his coffee to fish a power cord out of the Chief’s junk drawer to charge his phone. Krem finds it interesting and unsurprising to note that the Chief’s junk drawer also has a switchblade, two burner phones, brass knuckles, and an egg timer.

“You’re good, as soon as we eat you can go back to being an unconscious lazy ass in my living room,” Bull says, “Because my ghost has priorities, obviously.”

“Breakfast first, slovenliness later?” Krem hazards a guess and a sound like a finger flicking a glass of water sounds from behind him.

“That's a yes,” Bull says, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a carton of milk.

Krem opens a cabinet to get bowls and cereal.

Moments later Krem is sitting at the Chief’s dining table while the man cracks eggs into a large skillet.

Krem has all of one mouthful of cereal before he’s choking. The Chief doesn’t even look at him. Ass.

“Your milk is  _hot_ ,” Krem sputters, staring at the bowl of cereal in front of him incredulously.

“Eating something cold in the morning when you first wake up is bad for you,” The Iron Bull says over the sound of frying eggs.

Krem stares at the man and there’s another  _ping!_  of a finger flicking glass.

“Are you kidding?” Krem asks.

“Is the milk magically not hot anymore?” Bull returns, “Besides. Maybe that’s what she died from. Maybe she’s saving us from dying via cold food messing up our bodies first thing in the  morning.”

Krem rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, “I mean,  _maybe_ , but - ?”

Krem just gestures around.

“ _Do_  you know what she died of?” Krem asks instead, “Have you found out who she is?”

“No clue,” Bull answers, “Josephine asked her cousin for me, but he had no idea the place was haunted. The previous owners never had any bad experiences, and the people  _they_ got it from never had anything bad to say either. No record of murder, police activity, or cults, or whatever around here, either.”

Krem slowly chews a bite of warm cereal. It doesn’t taste half bad. It just feels weird.

“Then why is your house haunted?” Krem asks.

“Maybe I’m lucky,” Bull muses, the stove clicking off as he comes over with the food still in the skillet. “Maybe she didn’t live here.”

Bull pauses before sitting down and Krem finds himself holding still as they wait for the ghost to respond.

Nothing.

Bull shrugs and sits down, pulling a trivet over to put the skillet on.

Krem pours Bull some milk and passes him the cereal box as Krem sticks his fork into the skillet and bursts a yolk.

“Heathen,” Bull mumbles as Krem licks yolk off his spoon. Krem rolls his eyes.

“For someone so chill about living with a ghost you’re stupidly picky about how people eat,” Krem says. “Of course I’m going for the yolk first, it’s the best part.”

“That’s why you  _savor it for last_.”

“Boring,” Krem says.

“The ghost agrees with me,” Bull says, and the sound of a dozen glasses being flicked goes off at once. It’s more like one person is playing at making music by flicking a bunch of differently shaped and filled glasses of water.

Krem sighs, “Only  _you_  would find the weirdest, pickiest, most finicky ghost in the entire world to haunt your house.”


	135. Chapter 135

“What do you mean I can’t be there?” Bull asks as Dorian throws himself into the passenger seat of Maxwell’s car. Maxwell watches all of this with a look of undeserved delight. “You’re about to become the father of my wife’s child.”

“Because it would be so many levels of awkward, Bull.”

“You’re letting  _Maxwell_  go with you.”

“Maxwell has experience with this and thus I trust him to know if things are going well or not,” Dorian says and Bull leans down low so he can look at Maxwell.

“Cullen and Evelyn thought they’d have to do things the hard way for a while,” Maxwell replies cheerily, “And as the favorite, best, and overall kindest and most loving cousin in the world, I, of course, took it upon myself to help them research this. And I was also there to make sure Cullen didn’t, you know,  _croak_  right there on the spot as soon as he walked in the doors. That’s probably not sort of the death Evelyn intended to get out of him.”

The three of them pause to take that in.

“And then she got  _twins_ ,” Dorian muses.

“Maybe you’ll get twins, triplets even,” Maxwell suggests.

“Please, no,” Bull murmurs.

“They weren’t even  _trying_  then,” Dorian continues. “That was a drunk accident.”

“She was on birth control.”

“Stitches and Sera have made it their personal mission to make sure that everyone we know always has a condom in their wallet at all times,” Bull adds in.

“It was  _the holiday party,_ ” Dorian says, “They were gone for literally  _ten minutes_.”

“Deck the halls,” Maxwell makes a gesture with his hand and winks.

Dorian grimaces. Bull rolls his eye and leans on the car. The car, noticeably, sinks to one side.

“Hey!” Maxwell says, and is ignored.

“Maxwell gets to come but I don’t,” Bull says, “I feel like this is somewhat unfair of you.”

“Technically, you could come all you want,” Maxwell says. He is, of course, ignored.

“It’s just awkward for me, Bull, alright?” Dorian says, “One, I’m getting a married virgin pregnant. Two, I’m doing it by jacking off in a sealed room in a building with many other rooms designed with this express purpose and may or may not be occupied. Three,  _I’d be in public_.”

Dorian quickly cycles between red, pale, green, and then red again.

“I don’t know how people do this, just saying it outlaid is all sorts of,” Dorian can’t finish that sentence and just shivers violently.

“Bull could do it,” Maxwell says, “Born exhibitionist.”

“You’re not cute,” Bull says, “Don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine. It can’t be that hard. Cullen did it.”

“Cullen did it many times, in fact he even did it with his wife once,” Maxwell says. “And really once was all it took.”

“I’m having second thoughts about this whole thing, but mostly  _you_  Maxwell,” Dorian says.

“Bull could drive you,” Maxwell says, “I mean, he’s literally the only other person who’s in on your little secret.”

“I have no idea why you told him,” Bull says, “If this gets out I know exactly who the leak is.”

“Rude.”

“Again - he has experience in this, but now I’m starting to regret it,” Dorian says, waving Bull away so he can slide the car window up. “Anyway, no you can’t come with us, yes I’ll be able to do this, yes I’ll probably try to call it off four different times before eventually getting around to it. I’d say wish me luck but somehow that just seems wrong.”

Bull sighs and stands up, waving them off, “Don’t get me triplets. I know you and Evelyn have that whole rivalry thing going, but don’t extend it to kids. I’m begging you here.”

“Tell that to your wife,” Dorian slumping in the car seat as Maxwell drives off with a murmured  _finally_. “Ellana would totally get pregnant with triplets just to see if she could match Evelyn.”

-

Ellana fights hard to keep her breathing even and quiet, ears attuned to the Iron Bull’s breathing. He’s asleep. He’s definitely asleep.

He’s got to be asleep.

Ellana slowly reaches her arm out from underneath the covers and braces her hand on the nightstand. An agonizing inch by inch series of movements gets her one foot on the floor, half her body off the bed, and not a single change in the Iron Bull’s breathing.

About ten minutes later she’s fully off the bed and carefully creeping towards their bedroom door.

She has a hand on the doorhandle and she’s  _so close_ , if she can just  _make it down the stairs -_

 _“_ And you’re going where?”

Ellana groans, hand sliding off the door handle as she slumps against the door, “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“Pot, kettle, ever met before?” Bull replies, sounding only half asleep and about half as tired as he should be. He sits up, flicking the light on the nightstand on. Ellana grimaces, squinting her eyes shut at the bright light. “Seriously, where are you going?”

“How long were you going to just let me get on with it?” Ellana asks instead.

The Iron Bull rubs a hand across his face, “I thought you were going to piss and you were being weirdly polite about it. Considering that you’ve actually walked over me before when you  _aren’t_ pregnant I thought its was weird but there are weirder things in this world than you suddenly being polite about needing to pee. Seriously, where are you going?”

Ellana considers bluffing and then going back to bed, but he’s her Iron Bull and she doesn’t lie to her Iron Bull.

“I had a craving,” She says.

He doesn’t even judge her, he just takes in a slow, deep breath, and throws the covers back. He grabs his phone off the nightstand and walks over to her, “Where we headed?”

“You don’t have to,” She says even as they walk down the stairs together, “I can go myself.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think so but nice try,” Bull snorts as they put on flip flops and jackets. Ellana sticks herself into one of Bull’s sweatshirts. It’s more of a giant blanket than a sweatshirt on her, really. But it’s so cozy. He grabs his keys. “Should I get my wallet?”

“I wanted churros, so no,” Ellana says, “We have enough change for that in the cup holder.”

“Alright,” Bull nods, “Might as well get some nachos while we’re at it.”

Ellana’s mouth waters, “I didn’t even think of that.”

Bull gives her a lopsided and still a little asleep grin, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side, “That’s why we’re a team, Kadan. You’re churros and I’m nachos.”

Ellana grins, “We have the stuff for warm cider, too.”

“ _Nice_ ,” Bull says as they get into the truck, “Let’s put on that one horror movie that we always like to make fun of. Warm cider, churros, nachos, and that shitty movie? We’ll be out in  _minutes_.”


	136. Chapter 136

“Sir, are you aware of how fast you were going?”

The flashlight flicks into the car and both Bull and Dorian squint.

“Do you not  _see_  the plates?” Dorian says, “Do you not see the make and model of this incredibly large truck?  _We’re Inquisition, let us pass_.”

“Sir, you were going well over one hundred miles an hour,” The officer says. Bull has to wonder if the man brought out some sort of footstool or something to be able to look into the car. “License and registration.”

Bull takes in a slow breath and wills patience into himself, “Officer, I understand that you are doing your job. You are, in fact, doing it above and beyond considering that you pulled over  _the Inquisition,_  which is probably beyond your pay grade. But this is an emergency.”

“An  _emergency.”_

 _“_ We’re missing the birth of our child,” Bull says and it’s dark and he’s looking against a light but he can  _feel_  the look the officer is giving him.

“You’re together?”

“ _No_ , fasta vass,” Dorian exclaims, “We are not together.”

“We’re kind of together, but tangentially,” Bull says, “In that we’re coworkers and house mates and my wife is giving birth to his child.”

The flashlight slowly moves between Bull and Dorian and back again. An unspoken  _excuse me_  goes between them.

“ _Your wife_  cheated on  _you_  to sleep with  _him_  and now she’s giving birth to his child?” The officer repeats. “Someone was crazy enough to cheat on  _you?”_

There are so many ways to take that and while they could be amusing Bull is mostly incredibly annoyed.

“One, she didn’t cheat on him to sleep with me because I’m  _gay_  and I’m not a home wrecker,” Dorian says, “Two, can we get going before we miss the birth of our child?”

The officer shines the light on Dorian, then back on Bull. Bull doesn’t blame him for being incredibly reluctant to take that story. It does sound multiple levels of ridiculous and bullshit, except Dorian Pavus is constantly in tabloids and it’s no secret that he’s got Ellana Lavellan of the Inquisition pregnant as his surrogate.

Their house actually has an Inquisition  _guard_  to keep reporters and paparazzi and weird cult-like fans away.

This is not a secret. This is common knowledge.

This should not be holding them up from being at the birth of this child.

Bull’s cellphone rings in the cupholder and Dorian grabs it - “If this is his wife calling to tell us that she’s given birth without us there I am bringing down every authority I have in this nation and Tevinter and every other nation in between on your head.”

Bull focuses on not ripping his steering wheel off and hurling it out the window in a fit of pure rage.

Dorian goes very quiet and still and then says, “Officer the phone is for you.”

Dorian passes the phone to Bull who passes it to the Officer.

“I didn’t recognize that number,” Bull says, it hadn’t played any of the custom ringtones he assigns to people and groups. It was just a generic call.

“I bet you didn’t,” Dorian mumbles, “You wouldn’t have known the number if you saw it, either.”

The officer has gone very quiet. Bull and Dorian wait.

“Of course sir, I understand,” The officer says softly.

The phone is passed back to Bull and the officer turns the flashlight off, “Proceed. Would you like a police escort?”

“No, we’re good,” Dorian says and Bull glances down at the phone. The call is still ongoing, he chances holding it up, wondering if it’s Leliana or -

“If you miss the birth of my niece my sister would never let me hear the end of it,” Mahanon says on the other side.

“You  _aren’t even in the country_ ,” Bull says as he pins the phone between his hear and shoulder, not even rolling up the window as he switches out of park and floors it. It’s terrible for the car, but it’s - overall - the least terrible thing he’s done to it since Cassandra gave him the keys.

“Terrifying,” Dorian says.

“Does it matter?” Mahanon replies dryly, “As it is, my sister already wont shut up about this baby, with my terrible fortune if you two missed the birth she’d never let me hear the end of it. We would  _die_  and she would still be talking about it well into the moment air leaves our lungs for the final time. I have other things in my life to care about.”

“You are very bad at this whole not caring thing,” Bull says.

“The fact that I am multiple nations away from you will not keep you safe,” Mahanon says, “Ignore the traffic lights, I’ve arranged things.”

“I didn’t know you had this high of an authority with the Inquisition,” Bull says. Mahanon’s authority  _is_  very high, but he didn’t think it was  _this_  high. This sounds like direct Inquisitor shit.

“Who says that this comes from the Inquisition?” Mahanon replies.

Bull shivers reflexively and Dorian leans away from him, “I don’t want to know what he just said. I feel it by proximity. I don’t want to know. Tell him thank you for getting us this much closer to seeing our child being born and also us  _dying_.”

“Dorian says thank you for the assist,” Bull says.

“I don’t accept your gratitude,” Mahanon replies. Which is Mahanon speak for  _no problem_. Mahanon’s fierce and bitter disgust with the world and the people the populate it at large is perhaps matched only by his distaste for platitudes in the face of common sense actions. Both are trumped by his complete and utter - returned - devotion to his sister’s wellbeing and general state of happiness.

“We’ll take pictures for you.”

“Don’t,” Mahanon says. “I don’t need to know what my sister is like during childbirth. It’s bad enough that I know what she was like as a child.”

Bull refrains from pointing out that although the two words carry some of the same letters, they are not the same concept.

“I respect your power and authority over this situation,” Bull says because Mahanon is more likely to take that than thanks.

Mahanon grunts and hangs up.

Bull lowers his shoulder and lets Dorian grab the phone.

“What happened to make him so damn ominous?”

“Ellana’s no less ominous, she’s just ominous in a different way,” Bull points out.

“The kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night when her words finally sink in and you’re left with this dawning epiphany you want to run away from at full speed but you can’t because the void of sleep has deserted you to this primal awakening?”

“Good, you’re aware of what our future child might have waiting for us,” Bulll nods, “Let’s hope that Baby doesn’t have her sense of ominous foreboding and Mahanon’s thousand yard stare.”


	137. Chapter 137

Cullen, long used to his cats nighttime proclivities - namely Ellana’s tendency to wake up in the middle of the night and then proceed to stalk around the house as though the house is haunted and she’s in the middle of entertaining spiritual guests by herding them from room to room and possibly chasing them out from underneath furniture when she thinks they’re being inappropriate based on how many times Cullen has told her not to be under furniture - forgets to warn Josephine and Leliana before they go to sleep for the night that they may be woken by the sounds of Ellana playing host to possible supernatural figures.

“Your cat,” Leliana says as soon as the three of them are assembled in the morning. Well, two and a half, really.

He and Leliana are mostly awake, used to odd hours, but Josephine is barely hanging in there. Cullen feels deeply guilty for this, especially since Josephine is coming off such a long flight.

“Yes, my cat. The cat you made me take on,” Cullen says, and then quickly makes peace with her by giving her the entire first pot of coffee. Leliana kisses his cheek and then pats his face before drinking straight out of the pot.

“Your  _cat_ ,” She continues after the first sip as Josephine makes grabby hands at Cullen for  _something_. Anything.

Cullen reaches behind his head at the still open cabinet and pulls out a mug and then turns a little to reach another cabinet for tea.

Josephine squashes herself between Cullen and Leliana, eyes drooping closed as she mumbles to herself in a mix of Antivan and Trade, pulling at Leliana’s dressing gown and the thick blanket Cullen has over his shoulders.

He hears something a lot that sounds like  _you couldn’t get a house with heating, could you?_

Cullen tentatively puts an arm around her, thus draping her in the blanket.

Josephine, like the heat leech she is, immediately takes him for all he’s worth and plasters herself to his side. There once was a time where Cullen would get a bit flustered by this.

Well, Cullen still is, but not as much. He’s grown a bit used to it.

So Cullen goes about making her some tea with one arm awkwardly held up to accommodate her without squashing her into his armpit.

“Your cat,” Leliana says for a third time, “Is a menace and truly belongs in Kirkwall.”

“Well I don’t think you can take her back  _now_ ,” Cullen says as Josephine snuffles into his side, bemoaning the cold tiles. “Josephine, do you want to go back to bed? I can bring this to you there.”

“No,” She says, her first real coherent word directed at anyone other than herself today, “Leliana can’t have you to herself. And you can’t have Leliana to yourself. We haven’t seen each other in so long. Every moment has to count.”

“Then let me get in on that action underneath that blanket, too,” Leliana says.

“Please no,” Cullen says, “You’re worse than Josephine and I don't know why no one’s admitted you for a strange and improbable case of permanent hypothermia.”

“That’s very rude of you, Cullen. I have a very loving and warm heart.”

“A shame its offset by your perpetually frozen extremities,” Cullen says. Having Josephine between them makes him braver, he thinks.

“I’m sorry Ellana woke you two up, I should have warned you two,” Cullen says, “She’s -  _active_.”

Ellana is currently sleeping in the space Cullen left behind in his bed, peacefully nestled underneath the thick warm covers and slightly underneath one of his pillows. She looks positively cherubic. A complete turn around from the hell on paws she is awake.

“It’s a good thing,” Josephine says. “You need an active cat to keep you occupied. If it was just you and Blackwall the two of you would just sit in silence all day staring out into the fields and forest.”

“And if it was just you and the Iron Bull you’d grind your teeth down to nothing worrying about him,” Leliana says.

Cullen hands Josephine her tea and she sighs in delight and bliss.

“Speaking of, I’m surprised the Iron Bull didn’t come to say hello last night,” Josephine says.

“Yes, it is strange,” Leliana muses. “Where does the Iron Bull sleep if not in the arms of a pretty woman like Josephine or myself when one is available?”

Cullen rolls his eyes and Leliana offers the pot to him. He shrugs and holds out his empty mug for her to pour some in.

He takes a slow sip and then coughs, “When did you have time to put whiskey in there?”

Leliana just grins at him.

Cullen shakes his head, taking another slow sip, “The Iron Bull keeps an eye out on Ellana most nights. Otherwise he’s out. I think he only really stays inside the house when the weather is terrible. Then he sleeps in the rocking chair in my room, or the recliner in the living room.”

He sleeps like a  _person_. Sitting up instead of curled up. Just like when he manages to somehow teleport himself into the baby chair. It’s uncanny.

“I’m sure he’ll stop by one of your rooms during the week,” Cullen muses, “If anything it would be to chase Ellana out.”

“She’s a darling but she was driving me crazy,” Leliana says, “What does she  _do_?”

“What  _doesn’t_  she do?” Cullen replies, “She starts the night off with me sleeping just fine and then suddenly she’s up and running away. If I don’t have the door open a little she’ll come back to me and cry until I open it for her. I’m a little surprised she wasn’t crying for either of you two to open your doors.”

It’s entirely possible the Iron Bull dissuaded her. Or Blackwall.

Cullen shuffles himself and Josephine - still latched onto his side and a bit behind him as she soaks in as much body heat as possible -, across the kitchen to so he can look outside.

He had let Blackwall out as soon as he woke up, and the dog is stoically in the middle of patrolling the grounds, as they are. Whatever those grounds Blackwall seems to think need patrolling are, anyway.

He whistles for the dog’s attention. Blackwall looks at him, very proper and very still, and then resumes his investigation of the yard for any disturbances.

“How is it your dog is just like you but worse?” Leliana says, “The point of you getting a dog and a cat was to relax.”

“And yet you gave him Ellana,” Josephine muses.

“I didn’t know she was like this! She must really like it here,” Leliana muses. “She must really like  _you_.”

“Or maybe my house is haunted,” Cullen suggests.

“Of course you’d get a haunted house with no heating,” Josephine sighs, “Cullen when do you do this to yourself? You aren’t a protagonist in a terrible cliched paperback!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Leliana says and Cullen gives her a half hearted glare.

A loud meowing distracts them and they turn down to see Ellana sitting by the door and staring upwards.

 _Inside_.

Towards the ceiling.

She meows again, ears pricked forward and eyes focused on the empty ceiling corner. She turns to them, head tilted as she meows again.

“We’re spending our next get together week at my place,” Josephine immediately announces as Cullen goes to pick up his probably ghost sensing cat. Josephine clings to the blanket and he lets her take it from him.

Cullen cradles Ellana in his arms as she continues to look between them and the corner, meowing. “Figure out a way to get Bull through the airlines without them thinking I’m smuggling a mountain lion and we’ve got a deal.”


	138. Chapter 138

“You’re  _what_  the Iron Bull?” Herah asks, slowly turning to Bull who is staring straight ahead and doing his damned best to ignore the sudden silence - well. It isn’t sudden. It’s been quiet the entire drive, the quiet just gained a new and dangerously sharp edge.

“To  _who_?” Mahanon says from the back seat.

Herah has to admit, Bull timed this perfectly.

If they’re late to Evelyn’s wedding, and if one a single hair is out of place, the Inquisitor will destroy the survivors. And Bull’s driving.

“I married Ellana six months ago,” Bull says, “We’re moving into a house next week. She wanted me to ask if you’d help us move furniture. Not you, Mahanon. I mean Herah.”

Herah risks a glance at the back seat.

Mahanon looks like some just slammed him headfirst into a brick wall. He looks like he was just run over by a car - or about to be. He looks like someone hit him with a frying pan from behind.

(These words should mean shock, Herah thinks, like she is. But this is Mahanon and he actually thrives on defying common language descriptors and associations. He and his sister are very much the same in this regard.)

He looks like he’s going to kill the Iron Bull, regardless of whether the Iron Bull is driving them to Evelyn’s wedding or not.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll help you move,” Herah says,  _I’ll also help Mahanon move your dead body_. “Does anyone else know?”

“Cole does, because we officially adopted him out of foster care and became his legal guardians,” Bull says. “I’m pretty sure that’s why we got married. About ninety percent Cole.”

“And the other  _ten_?” Mahanon hisses, sounding like a live wire or water hissing on hot stone.

“Finances,” Bull says and Herah quickly unbuckles her seatbelt and twists, catching Mahanon’s hands before he can finish his lunge and get Bull in a chokehold.

“Fucking - “ Herah swears as Mahanon hisses like a cat that can swear. “ _Your timing, Bull. Your damned fucking timing_.”

“Also Josephine knows because she was our witness,” Bull says.

“ _You’re my brother in law?_ ” Mahanon screeches and Herah winces, “You  _married my sister_? And no one thought to  _tell me_? You adopted Cole?  _You let Montilyet bet the witness_?”

“You were out of the country!” Bull says, “And it was really fast.”

“You are not helping,” Herah says as she struggles to push Mahanon back into his seat. “Pull it together guys, for Evelyn’s wedding. You can rip each other apart afterwards.”

“I’m not going to rip him apart,  _he’s my brother in law_ ,” Mahanon snaps, “I’m just going to bury him alive for a few days.”

Even Bull has to pause at that and the car swerves a little.

“I can’t believe,” Herah says over her shoulder as she holds Mahanon’s wrists, “You married this guy’s sister and thought you’d get away with anything less than this.”

Bull grimaces a little, “If it’s any consolation, I still don’t know how it happened. She could probably talk tears out of rocks and dogs into Orlesian palaces.”

“I know,” Mahanon says, sulking as he slouches into the back seat, curling up like a sullen teenager, “Before we got into the car my sister made me promise not to do anything rash on the drive here. Now I know why. I was wondering why she was so  _insistent_  on getting such a promise out of me without any sort of cause.”

-

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Kaaras says as he helps Ellana peel potatoes and dice them. Ellana has had a powerful craving for seasoned and fried potatoes.

“Of course I don’t mind, I wouldn’t have offered if I did. Why would I offer if I didn’t want you to say yes? That seems incredibly mean spirited to the both of us,” Ellana says, “Besides, Baby will want you around! Dorian will want you around! I’m sure the Iron Bull will want you around to help him keep me and Dorian sane. I think Baby will like having you about the house. You have a very calming presence, Kaaras. I appreciate that. Use that to tell Dorian I’m redoing the Baby’s room and he can’t do anything about it.”

“He really shouldn’t have decorated so early,” Kaaras muses.

“No, he shouldn’t have,” Ellana nods, “Back to the original question. Yes, you’re welcome here, Kaaras. We love having you here. You’re family.”

“It’s just - I think your house is going to be awful crowded and I don’t want to intrude. There’s you and Bull, Dorian and Cole, and then Baby. I feel bad.”

“Don’t,” Ellana gestures for him to hand her her water. Kaaras reaches across the table and hands it to her. She looks down at her stomach and pats the top, “Baby, if you’re going to demand I drink so much water with lemon you should stop making me pee so much. It’s incredibly embarrassing. Anyway, Kaaras, don’t think so much about it. We all like you very much. We all love you very much. Our house is your house, now. And we really do want you around for Baby. Are you saying no to Baby? I appreciate it because someone’s going to have to be able to say no to Baby in this house, but in this case you shouldn’t.”

“Ellana,” Kaaras shakes his head, “I’m starting to think that  _you really do think_  that the more parents this baby has the more powerful it will be.”

“Well we don’t know until Baby comes, will we?” Ellana says. “It couldn’t hurt. Isn’t there a saying that it takes a village to raise a child?”

“At this rate you’re going to have an Inquisition,” Kaaras says, “You know you can’t fit everyone we know into your house at once.”

“I can  _try_ ,” Ellana retorts. “Hey, do you think I could convince Bull to let us get a dog now? Baby should have a dog.”

“Ellana,  _please_.”

“No, Kaaras, this is a serious question. If i put it to a vote will you vote with me for a dog? Kaaras! This is very serious!  _Kaaras! Stop laughing!_ ”


	139. Chapter 139

“Wake up, I’ve caught the scent, come on,  _wake up_ ,” Bull grunts and tries to ignore Ellana pushing at  him.

“It’s so early it’s still late,” Bull says.

“I don’t care, I’ve got the scent.”

Bull cracks his eye open and sees Ellana putting things away in the tent. He can hear the Chargers outside packing up and getting ready to move out.

“I already told them,” She says, bright eyes glowing in the faint firelight that shines through the small opening in the tent flap. “We’re waiting on you.”

“Since when,” Bull says, closing his eye and slowly sitting up. Taking his time, because why not? He yawns. “Since  _when_  were they  _Ellana’s Chargers_? Was anyone going to tell me about the coup?”

Ellana chuffs and when he opens his eyes again the dark wolf stands in her place, and she slips through the cloth of the tent. Krem’s hand catches it and holds it open.

The man grins at him, “We told her to bite you in the ass when you didn’t wake up earlier. Apparently she tried biting your hands and it didn’t work.”

“Do not bite my ass with those teeth,” Bull says, knowing full well that Ellana will hear him. “I’m into a lot of shit, but not that.”

Ellana barks from the other side of camp.

“Come on, Chief, she’s got the trail and the Inquisitor’s got us on a deadline,” Krem says, “Unless you’d like to stay behind? Rest your old bones?”

“You’re a shit,” Bull says, waving his lieutenant off, “Make sure everything’s packed up good. Don’t want the spymaster getting pissed because we forgot one minuscule thing.”

Krem gives him a lazy salute with two fingers and lets the tent flap close shut. Bull turns his eye towards the black tent and sighs.

“I should have never let him talk me into this demon hunting bullshit,” Bull decides and he hears Ellana’s wolf-laugh, clear as though it were right next to him. “I know, kadan. I know. I’d have talked myself into it anyway.”

-

“How bad is it?” Evelyn asks Sera as the shapeshifter scowls her way through the deep underground tunnels.

“Real bad. Got all sorts. Mages, shifters, some elementals,” Sera ticks off, her eyes flash gold in the firelight and Evelyn can imagine the bristling of Sera’s fur if she were in her four legged form. “A few half-breeds, too. It’s  _bad_ , Evelyn. It’s  _really bad_.”

Evelyn trusts Sera’s assessment.

And if she didn’t, there’s Dorian at the opening of the tunnel, into the first chamber where Evelyn had instructed all the Inquisition members to bring any surviving creature they found in the smuggling den.

Though based on the brief images she’s seen in the rooms going off the tunnels on the way down, and what Sera’s told her?

This isn’t just a smuggling den. It’s an  _arena_. It’s a  _testing ground_. It’s a damned slaughter house and her heart pangs in her chest.

Evelyn has to quickly shake fire off of her fingertips. Sera, normally twitchy around magic, is in a mood enough to ignore Evelyn’s flare up. Evelyn doesn’t know if her control has slackened since leaving the tower or if she’s just become more attuned with her natural magic.

“How many?” Evelyn asks as soon as she’s close enough to Dorian she can whisper.

Dorian shakes his head, “In this entire place?  _Two_.”

Evelyn’s gaze snaps to Sera, who can’t meet her eyes.

“Two?” Evelyn repeats and Sera’s face cracks, scrunches up. Evelyn quickly puts a hand on Sera’s shoulder, and then pulls her close,

“The others didn’t make it,” Sera says, voice low and wet and  _young_. Maker, Evelyn forgets how young Sera is sometimes. “A lot of them were killed in the fighting - the  _slavers_  and the  _fucking merchants buying them_  would’ve rather them dead than free. Half of them had kill spells on them, Evelyn. Fucking  _kill spells_. The second their  _owners_  died they died too - or they tried to bolt and they were dead. Done. Instant.”

“That can’t be all of them,” Evelyn says, pulling Sera into her arms fully and stroking the young woman’s back in what she hopes is a comforting manner. She hopes it’s enough. She hopes it’s  _something_. “Dorian.”

“Some just couldn’t make it,” Dorian says, eyes soft as he turns from Sera to Evelyn, “They were too weak. Some of them just wanted to die, Evelyn.”

“ _Two_?” She repeats, disbelieving it.

“Maybe not even,” Dorian says, not looking away from her, not looking away from this truth. She’s so proud him for that. For being able to look at this fact and see it for what it really is. “I don’t think they’re going to make it, Evelyn. They’re - they’re  _weak_.”

“Don’t write them off so soon, Pavus.”

Evelyn and Dorian turn to look, and a small - a frightfully small, for what it contains - cage is being wheeled into the room by Bull. It’s not a testament to his strength that he can pull it in by himself.

It’s terrible and awful fact of how  _emaciated_  the two wolves in the cage are.

The only reason Evelyn knows there’s two wolves in there and not one is because Dorian said there were two survivors.

She can’t even tell where one ends and the other begins. They’re so matted with blood and grime. The filth of their own bodies, based on the stench she can smell from clear across the chamber.

Dorian’s hands gently pull on Sera’s shoulders. Sera isn’t crying, not really, but she’s working hard to control her breathing.

“Go,” Dorian says, taking Sera from her.

Evelyn nods, pulls on what she can of  _Inquisitor_  and  _Herald of Andraste_  over her shoulders and crosses the room to join Bull. He’s leaning against the cage, eyes focused on the two shifters inside and is quietly talking to them.

“This is Evelyn, the Inquisitor. I told you about the Inquisition on the way here,” Bull says, “They’re good people. Fighting demons, hunting them. And the people who summon them. The people who let them loose. The people who do shit like this.”

Evelyn stops by the cage and glances between Bull and the mass of matted, stinking fur.

“Anything?” Evelyn says softly, “Anything I should know?”

“Non-responsive,” Bull replies, just as soft, eye moving to meet hers, “But they’ll make it. One of them nearly took Stitches’ hand off when he reached in to check for signs of life. I think that definitely counts for something. Also Stitches is fine, don’t get that look on your face, Boss. He doesn’t even hold it against them. Who would?”

Evelyn slowly lowers herself so that she’s closer to eye level with where their heads might be if they were curled up like normal wolves or dogs. She can’t tell.

“Hello. I’m sorry I’m not here, not meeting you, under better circumstances. My name is Evelyn,” She says, not putting her hand out, “You don’t have to tell me your names. Not if you don’t want to. You don’t have to tell us anything. We’re going to get you out of here. And we’re going to do everything we can to help you. I’m going to keep you safe. I know that’s hard to believe. But I will.”

Evelyn holds her hand up and touches her fingers to the bars.

“I’m sorry. Humans aren’t all this bad.”

Evelyn startles when a four eyes suddenly open, liquid and warm black in the light, and stare at her.

Ears slowly prick up and the wolves in the cage weakly move. It’s not much of anything, really. More of a soft twitch, an accidental falling. But she can see their vague shapes, now.

One wolf slowly reaches out and touches their nose to the same bar Evelyn is touching and then quickly pulls back, ears flattening and eyes closing again, disappearing into the amorphous mass once more.

The other wolf watches her for what feels to be a very long time, and then flashes sharp teeth in a soundless snarl and closes their eyes, turning away and melting back into shapelessness.

They’re going to make it, Evelyn knows then and there. These two? They’ll make it.


	140. Chapter 140

No one is willing to take the shifters out of the cage - the kill mark could be on the cage, on the two inside, somewhere on the door, the  _lock -_ and that seems to suit the two wolves inside just fine as they don’t want to come out, either.

Evelyn has Bull slowly ease the metal cage into the water, the entire time she and Malika are holding onto the bars on either side and keeping up a running stream of one sided conversation.

One of the wolves looks around, curious, ears pricked. The other looks at the water.

By the time the three of them have the cage close to the waterfall, both wolves are looking panicky and Bull doesn’t blame them.

Then they get the cage door open and Malika climbs in, squeezing into the already narrow and packed space. The two wolves try to edge away from her. There isn’t much room for that.

They all agreed to send Malika in - she’s the least threatening in appearance and the one most people tend to underestimate because she’s so young and overall nice.

“Come on,” Malika says, gently and carefully bending down to try and coax the wolves into standing, “If it’s stinky to my regular person nose it must be awful to yours.”

It takes a few tries but the two shifters figure out that what’s about to happen isn’t another blow to their person-hood and dignity, because they weakly stand up and lean against Malika as Bull and Evelyn push the cage halfway underneath the water.

The wolves yip, Malika lets out a muffled shriek when the cold water hits, and Evelyn quickly throws a flame spell up higher in the water.

“Better?” Evelyn asks and Malika laughs shakily.

“Much! Now lets get the two of you clean.”

Bull thinks it would be easier if the two shifters changed back to whatever two legged shape they normally have, but he can’t blame them for not doing that. For one thing they’re weak beyond belief, for another they probably don’t trust anyone here at all. Bull, if he had the ability, would feel infinitely safer in the body of a four legged predator - starved or no.

Bull keeps his hand steady on the cage and watches as the water passing through runs out - muddy and soiled.

He glances up and sees Maxwell has come into the water and handed his cousin a steel brush. The Trevelyans begin working on getting the cage clean. Ideally the two shifters come out of the cage and the thing will no longer be necessary. But for now there’s no point in cleaning the two if the cage is filthy.

Sera is trying to coax Dorian into joining from the shore. The man firmly stands his ground on the dry embankment.

“Do you see any seals? Any marks?” Evelyn asks as Malika works on tangles in one of the wolve’s fur.

“Nothing yet,” Malika says. “I think I’m just starting to see natural fur color here.”

Bull and Blackwall have to switch places at one point with how long they’re standing there. Sera and Dorian trade places with Evelyn and Maxwell, Dorian with much coaxing.

Malika, unfortunately, has to stay where she is.

“She’s hardy, she wont get sick,” Maxwell says as he flops down on the grass and wiggles his toes. “Besides, I’m pretty sure none of us could get in there to replace her.”

“Her Uncle will probably have a heart attack if we return her with a cold, though,” Bull muses as he watches Malika through the spray. Just in case. He doesn’t think the two shifters are going to do anything, though.

“Wait till we tell him we put her under a waterfall with two starving wolves,” Maxwell says and grunts when Evelyn hits him.

“You’re not funny, Max.”

By the time the two wolves are fully clean - Malika was unable to tell if and where the kill marks could be - it’s well past noon.

Bull and Blackwall pull the cage back on shore and Malika jumps out, shivering. The two wolves immediately shake. Evelyn and Sera yelp, jumping back from the cage. Bull just turns his head away.

“Come on,” Maxwell says, immediately swooping her off to the side, “Let’s get you warm and dry and preferably not shivering.”

“Deal,” Malika says, “Also one of them is a boy and one is a girl. I think the three of us are all embarrassed by how I found that out but I think we all need to know.”

Maxwell gasps, “Malika, you’re too young to be going about feeling people up like that. I thought we taught you better than this!”

Maxwell yelps when Evelyn hits the back of his head with a rock. “You’re still not funny, Max.”

Bull joins Evelyn in drying the cage by rubbing it with rags. The two wolves inside are soaking wet, but at least they’re distinguishable as wolves, now.

One of them is pure black - the more curious one, Bull thinks. The one that touched Evelyn’s hand and was looking around. The other is gray and white, the one that snapped.

Both are horrifically thin.

As Bull and Evelyn work at drying the cage the two watch.

The black one starts a game of trying to catch Evelyn or Bull’s hand whenever they get near. The white one crouches low and watches.

“Hey, can I play too?” Maxwell says and before anyone can say anything he’s shifted into a hound and jumped into the cage. He’s smaller than both wolves but takes up more space through sheer force of personality and the fact that he isn’t starving.

The white wolf snarls, hackles raising but the black one barks back - and it sounds like a laugh. The two tussle for a bit as the white one watches on, pressed against the far wall of the cage. Not much space between the two groups but enough.

Maxwell is going easy on the wolf, and that’s - that’s a little sad.

The black wolf barks another laugh, tail wagging a little before their eyes meet Bull’s and they pounce on his still hand. The wolf’s nose fits a little through the cage bars and the wolf is quick enough to sneak a lick at Bull’s cheek before returning to playing with Maxwell.

“I think,” Evelyn says as she watches her cousin and the wolves, “We’re going to be alright.”


	141. Chapter 141

“Alright, we’ll be back in two months,” Bull says as he reports in to Evelyn for the last time before the Chargers go off for a quick sortie around the Storm Coast. The Blades of Hesserian are good but they’ve requested aide in managing the increased focus of the Red Templars, the slavers, and the rise of an irritated High Dragon. Bull is sort of disappointed that Evelyn’s marching orders aren’t  _go get rid of the High Dragon_.

A big part of him is hoping that when that High Dragon  _does_  get taken care of, he’s around for it.

It breathes  _lightning_.

He saw it fighting a  _giant_.

Bull’s skin tingles with the imagined  _rush_  of going up against power in motion.

“We’ll report in if we’re done before then or if there’s anything else noteworthy,” Bull says. Evelyn shrugs.

They both doubt there’s going to be anything new. There could always be something, but who knows?

Corypheus is on the run and the Red Templars are salting and burning their hideaways whenever the Inquisition doesn’t stop them first.

“Anything else, Boss?” Bull asks and Evelyn waves her hand at him, attention mostly focused on the map markers in front of her.

“Don’t do anything that Josephine wouldn’t approve of,” Evelyn says. “I would say don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but apparently I’d do a lot of things I didn’t think I’d do until I’m doing them.”

Bull grins at her, “Hidden depths, Boss. Congratulations on finding them. Did Rutherford help?”

Evelyn turns bright red and when she waves her hand at him her fingertips spark bright orange-red, “Okay, I think it’s time for you to go now. Really. Don’t you have to make a certain ground by nightfall? Aren’t you falling behind schedule or something?”

Bull gives Evelyn a lazy salute and turns to leave.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the tangled and curled up bodies of Mahanon and Ellana, awake and watching from a patch of sunlight against a section of almost repaired wall.

Bull nods at them and turns back towards the door.

“Oh,” Evelyn says at the same time something bumps into his hip.

Bull’s got the door halfway pushed open and he looks down.

Ellana’s dark form slips between him and door before she trots into the open hallway leading to Josephine’s office and the rest of Skyhold. Ellana keeps on going until she’s at the next door and she turns, tilts her head at him and then shifts back into her elf form.

“What? You heard her. We haven’t got all  _day_. And it’s such a beautiful day, Bull. We shouldn’t rush through it.”

Ellana then pushes the door open and leaves.

Bull turns around because he didn’t think there was anyone else aside from the Chargers coming, and sees that Mahanon hasn’t moved. In fact he’s curled up and appears to have gone to sleep.

Evelyn is staring at the pale wolf, something like nervous and hesitant hope and realization in her face.

“Alright,” Bull says slowly, “See you in two months, Boss.”

“Yes,” Evelyn says, eyes still on Mahanon, voice soft, “In two weeks.”

-

“I don’t know how they got along so well without a tracker,” Ellana says as she and Maxwell watch the Charger’s throat cutters finish their work. Bull is a distant shape, distinguished from the rest of the world by the shape of his horns and the sound of his voice as he yells at Rocky and Grim to stop fucking around and get to work because they’re on a schedule and Evelyn is an anxious mess enough without them being off schedule. He’s very considerate like that. “You really don’t go with them for these little outings?”

“This may come as a surprise to you,” Maxwell says, stretching his arms up and then putting an arm around her shoulder, drawing her close to his side as he pretends to whisper to her, “But I have absolutely no experience tracking things. Even with this powerful and beautiful nose of mine.”

“You’re a  _dog_.”

“I am a lap dog,” Maxwell replies, “An indoor dog. A dog to warm your feet at night. A dog to cuddle when you are lonely. A dog to be held and petted for joy and delight. A dog to bring smiles to children’s faces.”

Ellana gives Maxwell a funny look, “A what dog?”

Maxwell tweaks Ellana’s nose, “Point is, Bull’s people are very good at what they do and having you along is probably just an unfair advantage at this point. And there’s Skinner. I mean, she isn’t a shifter or anything, but she’s  _very good_  at finding people who she feels need to be found. Found dead, usually. By her doing, probably.”

“This is very true,” Ellana says, resting her head on Maxwell’s shoulder. And then she lowers her voice, “Even though they’re very good without an official tracker, do you think they’d want one? Do you think it would be redundant? I mean - they have a very finely balanced team and it all works together so smoothly. ”

Maxwell blinks, “Ellana,  _you are_  their official tracker. I mean, you haven’t signed any paperwork or anything - if you do, I suggest you have Josephine give it a look over. I don’t think the Chargers would cheat you with some unfair contract or anything, but it would definitely help to have Josephine check it anyway - but you are definitely theirs.”

Ellana’s bare toes wiggle and she pulls her cloak around herself a bit tighter, “Are you sure?”

“I am beyond sure, I am certain,” Maxwell says, kissing the top of her head loudly, “Aside from the way they trust and listen to you one hundred percent? The way the Iron Bull looks at you practically screams  _home_.”

Ellana pulls fistfuls of her cloak towards her face and he can tell she’s smiling. She kicks her feet a little against the crumbled wall they’re sitting on.

“ _Home_ ,” She repeats. “I like that.  _Home_.”

Maxwell rubs her shoulder and then gives her a gentle push towards the Chargers, “I know. You look at them like that, too.”


	142. Chapter 142

“Pets aren't allowed in this building,” Bull says as Ellana struggles to hold three - four - squirming kittens in her arms. Bull then turns and yells down the hall, “Cool it, Rutherford, I’m no snitch. I can hear you about to have a panic attack an entire hallway off. No one actually cares enough to tell the landlord and the landlord doesn’t care enough to do shit about it. You and your ten dogs are fine.”

“But  _Bull_ , they’re  _babies_ ,” Ellana whines. “Look at them.  _Babies_.”

Ellana holds her arms up without dropping any kittens and Bull looks at them, nodding.

“Yup, baby cats,” Bull says, holding a hand out and catching one that slips out of her grip. The kitten meows very loudly at him, as if baffled and slightly upset at being caught. Bull puts the kitten on his shoulder. “Were you just going to hide four kittens in our apartment and hope I don’t notice?”

“Maybe,” Ellana mumbles. “I mean, you hide  _people_  and I pretend not to notice.”

“Ellana, that’s not hiding people, that’s sheltering criminals from the feds and entirely different,” Bull sighs fondly.

Ellana pouts up at him. It’s a powerful expression. The only one who can really say no to it is Cullen and that’s because he’s a very, very tired person with ten dogs.

“Do they have names?” Bull asks. Ellana beams at him and then quickly looks down at the kittens in her arms.

“That means you get to stay and I’m going to love you and play with your little toes and feed you and keep you clean and warm and safe and play with you and spoil you absolutely rotten unless he starts in on it first,” Ellana says to them. “And no, I do not have names for them yet. We’re going to need to get them checked out.”

Ellana yells down the hallway, “ _Cullen_ , what’s the name of your vet?”

“Do you just  _always_  yell down the hallway,” Bull glances towards the open doorway on the other side of the hall and about three apartments down.

Isabela is leaning against the doorframe, looking only slightly disheveled and hung over as she yawns trying to arrange the large mass of curly dark hair on her head into something  _not in her face_.

“Do you all just treat the entire building like one open common room and yell about like this? Because I’m going to have to move to a different complex immediately if that’s the case and that’s a shame because I just finished getting comfortable here.”

“I can’t believe Varric didn’t warn you about us,” Bull says as Ellana goes down the hall to Cullen’s apartment to pound on the door, demanding for the contact information for Cullen’s vet.

“He probably did, but I most likely wasn’t listening,” Isabela says and then waves a hand at them, “I think the most I remember hearing was that all of you are  _nerds_.”

“Says the woman who  _LARPS_  during her free time,” Bull retorts.

“Never said I wasn’t,” Isabela shrugs and then grins at him, “I figured out a new way to make extremely realistic fake body parts for mock battles. You want to see some of my tests?”

“Are they dicks?”

“Of  _course_.”

“Cool, she’s going to be at Rutherford’s for a while. She’s got to say hi to every dog. I’ve got about half an hour. Show me the fake dicks.”

-

“Someone new moved in across the hall,” Dorian says to Ellana as she navigates their living room towards the kitchen without once looking up from her phone. Ellana is madly tapping at the phone with her thumbs, tilting her body this way and that.

“Uh huh,” She says and Dorian quickly reaches a leg out and snags a chair out of her way before she runs into it. She meanders, like a very drunk bee, to the kitchen and leans against the counter.

“Were you here for something?”

“Water me,” She says and then opens her mouth.

Dorian rolls his eyes and carefully sets down the plastic robot parts he was assembling onto the black towel he’s laid out on the kitchen counter so he can see them better.

“I’m not going to stick a water bottle into your mouth and hold it for you,” Dorian says. He does go get her a glass of water though.

“Bummer,” Ellana sighs. “Also, I just failed this level. Again. Do you think I could get Malika to do it for me?”

“Malika as in Edric’s niece who visits him on weekends?”

“Yeah, she’s really good at mobile phone games,” Ellana says.

“You  _could_  get her to do it by offering to grind her mage to max cap,” Dorian guesses, “I still don’t know why she picked mage.”

“She just needs to figure out a good mage build that isn’t a glass canon, Dorian. It’s not that hard. I do it all the time.”

“Not everyone can successfully pull of a hybrid build, Ellana. And are you listening to me? Someone moved in across the hall.”

“They took Maxwell’s apartment?” Ellana blinks, putting her phone down as she goes to rummage for snacks in the pantry. “I still think it’s weird that Maxwell has a  _house_  now.”

“He’s got all of one chair in it, it’s not that impressive,” Dorian rolls his eyes. “And yes, Maxwell’s apartment now has a person in it. I think you’ll like him.”

“How so?”

“Well. He looks interesting.”

Ellana squints her eyes at him. It’s only partially because she’s been staring at a screen for most of the morning.

“That sounds more like a reason for  _you_  to like him.”

“Not my type of interesting. Well - alright, a little my type of interesting. But mostly  _mysterious_  type of interesting, which is your favorite,” Dorian says. “And I saw some of the stuff he was moving in with.”

“Snoop.” Ellana shakes her head fondly as she rips open a bag of almonds, raising it and  _inhaling_  a good mouthful straight from the bag. Dorian can hear her crunching from the other side of the kitchen.

“Well informed,” Dorian corrects once he’s pretty sure she can hear him over the sound of her own teeth. “I saw one of his boxes. Computer parts. I think he makes his own rig.”

Ellana stops chewing, eyes widening.

Dorian immediately dashes for the door at the same time Ellana does. Dorian crashes against the door and holds it closed even as Ellana tries to pull it open.

“You cannot,” Dorian says, “I repeat,  _you cannot_  go and accost our new neighbor by asking him to help you build a custom rig. He hasn’t even been in the building for  _three hours_.”

“You can’t just tell me he’s building a rig and not expect me to go over there and look,” Ellana says after she gets through her mouthful of almonds. “Dorian that’s like telling Cullen that there’s a stray dog outside and it has no chip or collar.  _He’s going to adopt it_.”

“Please, at least wait  _twenty four hours_ ,” Dorian says. “Bring a welcome present. Like a civilized adult. Maker, I should have just told you he looked like a jock.”

“Maxwell’s kind of jock?”

“You know how Cullen tangentially knows this really terrifying woman he used to work with and went to boarding school with? And how that woman will occasionally stop by because she also knows Leliana on the fourth floor? And how that woman will  _very, very rarely_  be accompanied by a very imposing and tall sour faced man?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to imagine that sour faced man being cloned. And then this guy across the hall  _eats both those clones_  and each clone is one bicep.”

Ellana’s mouth drops open.

“He’s  _jacked_  is what I’m saying,” Dorian says, “Yoked. Cut. Ripped. However the kids these days say it. His head is disproportionate compared to his muscle mass.”

“That is definitely your type of interesting and if you had lead with that I would have had approximately twenty percent less interest than I have right now,” Ellana concedes. “But instead you chose to lead with the fact that he might have a custom gaming rig and you really can’t take that knowledge back, Dorian. You just can’t.”


	143. Chapter 143

“To be perfectly honest,” Ellana begins and both Evelyn and Leliana hold up hands to her.

“Actually,  _don’t_ ,” Evelyn says putting a hand to her forehead and pressing to ward off the headache she knows is coming. “Don’t be perfectly honest.”

“Plausible deniability is something I can work with, tell me nothing,” Leliana says, leaning across the table to touch her fingertip to Ellana’s upper lip, “Silence, Ellana, silence.”

Ellana slowly turns to Cullen, “So you just live your life in denial.”

“I live my life as it happens,” Cullen replies calmly, “I prefer the word  _resignation_.”

“Well I was going to give you some amazing information that I gathered from my old contacts since we’re now working together and stuff because  _I really want to not be under house arrest in my own home_ ,” Ellana says, huffing and crossing her arms, slouching in her chair like a petulant twelve year old. “The house which I  _pay for_. The house with which I live with my husband and am planning on bringing in little baby dogs and baby cats and baby birds and baby fish and baby - “

“Does Bull know how many baby animals you plan on introducing to this domestic situation?” Leliana asks.

“No, but he knows exactly how many  _adult_  and  _elderly_  animals I have plans for,” Ellana replies. Then she raises her leg up and points at the ankle monitor. “I can’t walk a dog with an ankle monitor, Evelyn. This is such a misuse of your power. I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Bull suggested it,” Evelyn says.

Ellana gapes and turns to Leliana.

“He said if we wanted you to stay put we’d have to make you somehow. He did not say  _put an ankle monitor on her_  in those exact words,” Leliana clarifies.

“Betrayal,” Ellana whispers, “From my own  _husband_.”

“I think he’s still peeved about you borrowing money from Varric,” Cullen says.

Ellana glares at him, “You  _think_? He would never traitor me like this otherwise.”

“I’d be mad too if Cullen borrowed money from Varric without telling me,” Evelyn says, but before Ellana can say something back Evelyn quickly shakes her head. “Wait - this isn’t what -  _back to the topic_. I don't want to know how you got this information and I don’t want you to be perfectly honest. Tell me the vaguest details possible that you think I need to know and we’ll work on it from there. I’ll leave the room if I have to.”

“This seems incredibly tedious,” Ellana says. “Can you just take the ankle monitor off already? Please?”

“Bull has the key code,” Cullen says.

Ellana slams her fist down on the table, “ _Traitored! By my own life partner! In our house!_ I can’t believe that I  _let_  him choose our silverware. And the entire time he was the one with the key code for this stupid ankle monitor. I am  _appalled_.”

-

“It could use some work,” Bull says as they pull up to the curb. Ellana’s face is pressed against the glass. “By some I mean  _a lot_.”

“We have time and practical skills and also money,” Ellana says. “Look at that yard! And that tree! That tree must have been here since this house was  _built_.”

“I think this house was built before  _electricity_  was a thing,” Bull says, parking the car. Ellana practically leaps out of the car and bounds up the cracked pavement. “Careful! There might be snakes in the grass!”

Ellana ignores him and skips up to the house and stops, neck craning back as she stares at it.

“This place,” Bull says as he follows her, looking on either side of the house, “Should probably have been demolished. I can’t believe the neighborhood and city haven’t leveled it.”

“It’s  _destiny_ , it’s been waiting for us!” Ellana claps her hands together, “Oh, how exciting! Our first big purchase! Cole is going to love this!”

Cole, Bull thinks, would love anything that Ellana loves.

Ellana climbs up the stairs to the porch. Bull glances around, keeping a careful eye on her to make sure she doesn’t fall through a sudden hole in the wood or anything crazy like that. The mosquito netting surrounding the porch is - well. It’s bad. It’s very bad.

Bull can’t tell what color the paint of the house was, he’s certain it wasn’t  _gray_  though.

“Don’t get a splinter,” Bull says as Ellana goes to knock on the front door.

“You’re right,” Ellana stops, hand raised to knock, “But the knocker looks like it might give me tetanus.”

Bull grimaces.

“Let me,” He says pulling his scarf off and wrapping it around his knuckles. He reaches over her and knocks on the door. He examines his knuckles and then holds them out for her.

Ellana whistles and starts pulling sharp wood ships and flecks of paint out of the scarf.

“There are other houses,” Bull says.

“But this one is  _old_  and it has  _history_ ,” Ellana says, “It’s a fixer upper!”

“It’s a  _raze to the ground and build anew_ -er,” Bull mutters, “Are you sure the agent said they’d be here?”

Bull has a horrible mental image of the real estate agent being dead inside this giant death trap of a house.

“Well, that’s their car,” Ellana muses, turning and pointing to a chipper yellow car with fake eyelashes on the headlights. “It’s the only one with a real estate sticker logo on it. So they have to be here.”

“They’re dead,” Bull concludes after they wait outside for a few more minutes.

“You’re very quick to jump to conclusions today,” Ellana says as she texts the agent, “I think you don’t want this house.”

“I do not want this house,” Bull confirms, “I’m going to go look around.”

“Let me paint you a picture with words, then,” Ellana nods to herself, tucking her phone in her purse as she takes his hand and trots alongside him as he goes to check the rest of the property. “Imagine this,  _a dog_.”

“No.”

“A  _cat_.”

“Maybe, but probably no.”

“A bird.”

“ _No_.”

“Cooperate with me. Engage with me. Play with me in this imaginary play space I’m trying to make for us.”

“I can’t imagine a dog, a cat, or a bird living with us in this horror movie set. I mean, I could. I don't want to,” Bull says. The back yard is just as much a wild mess as the front yard, two to three foot tall grass and weeds and all. There’s also an extremely overgrown looking bush of some sort and a gnarled half-dead tree. The back leads directly into the woods and fields. “That’s a security risk.”

“A what risk?”

Bull shakes his head, “Nothing. If you’re going to try and sell me on this start with how we fix all the flagrant safety violations this thing has.”

“I’m getting there. But first engage with me. Imagine our dog.”

“Okay, fine. Sell me on this. I’m imaging  _a dog_. What now?”


	144. Chapter 144

“I’m moving in with the man across the hall,” Ellana says.

“I’m hoping you mean the Iron Bull and not, say,  _Cullen_ ,” Dorian replies. And then the full weight of Ellana’s declaration sinks in and his head snaps up to her. “You’re  _what_? When? Does  _he_  know that?”

“I’m moving in with him next week and of course he knows that, I’ve been gradually moving all my stuff over for the past two months. And I’m sleeping there more often than I’m not,” Ellana points out.

“Ellana, this is an apartment building, not a giant dorm room. You can’t just  _switch_  apartments,” Dorian says, slight panic building because he can’t afford rent for this place by himself.

Ellana sits next to him on the sofa and turns the TV on mute. She takes his hands in hers.

“Dorian, I’ve already asked the landlord and that’s all I was waiting for. Now you’re the third person to know. Don’t worry, I’ll be right across the hall and nothing will really change.”

“Except for the fact that I might have to  _move out_  because I can’t afford rent by myself - unless you’re going to be paying for this apartment.”

Ellana squeezes his hands, “I’ve got you a new roommate.”

Dorian feels like he’s either going to faint or commit homicide.

“His name is Mahanon,” Ellana says, “And the two of you will get along just fine. He’s been paying rent for the past two months.”

“Mahanon,” The name sounds vaguely familiar. “What if I don’t like him? Is he like you?”

“Dorian, _no one_  is like me,” Ellana answers, “But he is an astrophysicist.”

“Fair,” Dorian nods. He  _really doesn’t want to move_. “Ellana, I want you to know this is an incredibly shitty move you’re pulling. And the part of me that isn’t panicking is very upset at you right now. What else is he like?”

“That’s also fair, and I understand your perspective entirely, but trust me when I say this is not going to be a problem. Mahanon is Evelyn’s best friend, if you need a character reference.”

“ _I’m_  Evelyn’s best friend.”

“No, you’re  _my_  best friend.”

“No, I’m your roommate.”

“No, Mahanon is your roommate,” Ellana shakes her head. She’s already moved on. Amazing. “And he’s also my brother, who I know you happen to fancy just the tiniest bit.”

“Oh,” Dorian blinks. “ _Oh_.”

“Mhm.”

“Your brother is an astrophysicist?” Dorian asks. “I thought he was a park ranger or something.”

“He volunteers at shelters in his spare time,” Ellana says. “And when he’s not doing that he’s trying to recreate props from movies so he can test the stunts.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, Dorian,  _oh_ ,” Ellana kisses Dorian’s cheek. “You two will be fine. Trust me. And Dorian?”

“Yes?”

“If you really don’t like it, Mahanon and I could switch. Bull really does have a spare room and Bull and Mahanon already get along really well. Please don’t worry about having to move out or find a new place to live. I’d be terribly lonesome without my best friend. And who’d find your lost model pieces for you when you drop them if I’m not here?”

-

“Mahanon and I are moving to a different apartment,” Dorian says.

“What? When?” Ellana asks, releasing the straw for her strawberry smoothie from her mouth. It’s chewed up and practically flat.

“Next week,” Dorian says, “We’re moving up two floors to an apartment with a better view of the sky. For Mahanon’s telescope. It’s the apartment Harding left behind.”

“I miss Harding already.”

“We all miss having a responsible adult in the building we can run to, but we have to get over it,” Dorian says. “Anyway, I’m telling you this now so you don’t try your key in our door and get confused when it doesn’t work and then try to pick the lock.”

“Is it already filled?”

“One of Varric’s friends.”

“Is Varric trying to fill the building with people he knows?”

“It’s almost as if he’s trying to get us all in one spot. To monitor us? Or to make sure we’re all in one place when he finally does us in, you think?”

Ellana lightly kicks Dorian underneath the table, “Varric would never do us in.”

“We’ll see. In the mean time, please don’t piss off your new neighbor or do anything rash.”

“I don’t piss my neighbors off, that’s Bull’s job,” Ellana returns to playing with the straw of her smoothie with her teeth. “Do you need help moving things? I’m volunteering the Iron Bull’s help. And mine. I’m bringing my cats over so they can get used to your apartment as soon as you settle in.”

“It’s the exact same as the old one, I promise you.”

“You aren’t even going to arrange the furniture?” Ellana gasps, “Dorian, it’s a time for new ventures! Redecorate! Remodel!”

“With the exact same layout and possessions as our current apartment?”

“Mahanon’s a crafter, an artist. He could definitely make something new out of your stuff. Rearrange things!  _Live!_ ”

“I happen to like the way things are currently arranged,” Dorian says. “This seems entirely too bothersome.”

“I am surrounded in the dull.”

“Except for the Iron Bull, of course.”

“He doesn’t count, I live with him, of course we have similar tastes and outlooks.”

“You lived with  _me_.”

“Not anymore, Dorian,” Ellana gives him a very solemn look and says, “I’ve  _changed_.”

Dorian humors her for all of half a minute and at exactly thirty seconds he says, “Yes, now you know how to play a healer class and you do it for money. I’m very proud of you for being able to move on from your DPS freelance solo ways. Anyway, if you and Bull are free I’m sure we’d appreciate your help.”

“Excellent,” Ellana says and then she picks her straw up and sticks it into Dorian’s latte.

“You know you don’t like coffee,” Dorian says even as he pushes the plastic cup towards her, “And your stomach is going to hurt like mad later.”

“That's a problem for future Ellana,” She says, “Present Ellana wants a taste.”


	145. Chapter 145

“You’re worrying too much, you can’t have your child live in a bubble,” Cullen says. He doesn’t even look before leaning over and snagging one of his twins and throwing the golden haired girl onto his shoulder.

She squirms a bit, babbling and waving her chubby limbs before deciding that this is a new game and she starts pretending to be an airplane balanced on Cullen’s shoulder, arms and legs outstretched.

“They’re going to eat dirt, fall down, put things in their mouths, and wind up with things they shouldn’t have access to,” Evelyn says, calmly flipping through a magazine. “Ellana, is this what you mean by green? Is this the shade of green you mean?”

She turns the magazine towards Ellana who is currently looking through a small stack of paint swatches.

“Mmm,” Ellana squints and then holds up two squares to it, “More blue. And warmer.”

Evelyn nods. This, apparently, makes sense to her.

“I am not worrying too much, I think the two of you aren’t worrying enough,” Dorian says, turning around and looking for the other twin who’s always been worryingly quiet in that disaster tends to follow. “Where is your son?”

Cullen and Evelyn still, if they were dogs their ears would be perked. Cullen gets up and looks out through the kitchen window. “The dogs have him, we’re fine.”

Evelyn flips a page in her magazine and scribbles something down on a notepad.

“Dorian is a worrier,” Ellana says as she holds paint swatches to the tablet screen, looking at the photographs of the nursery walls. She quickly switches to a picture of some framed prints and shoves the tablet at Evelyn. “Bull says we should go animal prints but I’m thinking florals. Your thoughts with this shade of green?”

“Don’t use silver frames,” Evelyn says and then, “Don’t worry, we were all worriers once.”

“You still are,” Cullen says to her and Evelyn’s lip twitches upwards. “And so am I, I concede.”

“Not about the safety of your children’s every day lives,” Dorian says.

“Look, somehow the twins managed to get into a locked room and then lock themselves sin for two hours,” Evelyn says, “We’ve learned that no matter how far you take it - no matter how many plans or contingencies you  make - your child will figure out a way around it. You just have to go with it, Dorian. All on the fly. It’s terrible and awful but sometimes that’s what you have to do.”

“Of course you do what you can - cover electrical plugs, put corner protectors on tables, put sharp objects away, baby gates - but you can’t take it to an extreme,” Cullen says, setting his daughter down and gently nudging her towards her building blocks. He then gets up when she goes over to the dog food bowl and picks her up again, also scooping up a few blocks and bringing them to the table. His daughter seems perfectly content to sit on his lap and play rather than roam around. In fact she starts pointing at the blocks and chattering at them.

“Juice, juice,” She says putting together an orange block with a yellow block. “Mama, juice, juice.”

“What do we say?” Evelyn says, turning to her daughter.

“Please,” She says, “Thank you.”

Evelyn smiles, “Good girl,” and gets up to get her daughter some juice.

“What do you think lima bean?” Ellana says showing the two year old a the paint swatches, “Which green is nice? Do you like this green? Or this green?”

Dorian watches as the little girl throws her hands up in the air, narrowly missing whacking Cullen in the face, “Green! Yellow! Blue!”

Ellana nods, “All very good choices and combinations. You get this from your mother, lima bean.”

“How do you know if you’ve taken child proofing too far?” Dorian asks.

“Dorian, if you have to ask that question you’re probably there,” Cullen replies, amused. “And if you doubt that maybe you should ask Kaaras and Bull for their input.”

“They were raised like wild things,” Dorian says, “What would they know of child safety?”

“And what about me?” Ellana asks.

“I think maybe if we took half of Dorian’s concern and gave it to you we’d balance out,” Evelyn says. “You’re a very chill mother so far.”

“Thank you,” Ellana looks down and pats her baby bump, “Hear that Baby? You’ve got a really chill mom.”

-

“It’s beautiful,” Ellana says, voice soft and eyes warm as she looks at the chair standing in the newly remodeled nursery. “It’s beautiful and perfect.”

Blackwall clears his throat, awkward and humbled at once, “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t so sure on what color to paint it.”

The rocking chair is painted white. It’s simple in design, almost plain. But it’s sturdy looking and at home with the baby blanket Kaaras had bought draped over one arm and the stuffed nug that Krem had made sitting on it.

“I love it,” Ellana says, slowly entering the room to touch her fingers to the smooth wood, taking the chair in. “Blackwall, this is - it’s beautiful. It’s wonderful.  _You’re_  wonderful.”

She gently takes the nug off the chair and sits down marveling as she runs her hands over the wood, slowly easing the chair back and forth.

She takes a slow look around the room. All of their friends had insisted on doing the final touches. And now she knows why.

Baby feels like a flutter under her skin and she absently runs her hand over her belly, feeling Baby press back. Her heart squeezes with  _pure happiness_. There is no other word for it.

Krem’s nug. Kaaras’ blanket. Blackwall’s rocking chair.

On the wall there are some colorful and simple paintings of flowers done by Sera and Josephine. In a corner there’s a very large stuffed bear that Herah had gotten. Cole’s stuffed rabbit is already in the crib.

There’s a mobile hanging over it and Ellana is willing to bet it’s one of Dagna’s designs - there are little stars and planets hanging from it.

Everywhere in this room she looks there’s something new - some final touch, put just right that she didn’t know she wanted or would need until she sees it.

“You’re so loved, Baby,” Ellana says, cupping her hands over her stomach as Blackwall quietly steps out into the hallway to give her a moment. Ellana feels her eyes tearing up. “Baby, you’re so  _loved_. I can’t wait for you to meet all these people.”


	146. Chapter 146

“So this is the end of the world,” Ellana says, standing in the flat dust as she looks at the rapidly approaching horizon.

“It’s bangin’,” Bull muses. It’s literally  _banging_.

Wind is ripping shit apart, sending roofs crashing into buildings and cars, tossing mailboxes into light poles, ripping trees up and hurtling them into houses.

The end of the world is literally approaching. Bull guesses it’ll be on them in maybe five minutes, give or take. The ground is quickly and violently disappearing in a series of wind, lightning, dark clouds, and shadows.

The only light is the fires that have sparked from the lightning and downed poles, and of course the cars, and behind them in the one building they’ve found still standing. It’s a low one story one room bar with greasy, sticky shelves of bad liquor, foggy glasses, and a shitty bathroom.

All of these things don’t matter considering there’s nothing else left.

Bull had always thought that they’d go down fighting against whatever great injustice or evil or douche bag came next. At the very least, Bull thought that they would not be the last ones standing in the grand scheme of  _the world is literally about to end in five minutes_.

Bull had thought that they would be leaving something better behind, at the very least. Leaving  _something_  behind.

He can’t hear much over the wind and the crashing and howling around them.

Inside the bar their few surviving friends are drinking shitty liquor, being close, and laughing for the last time.

None of them are the type to go out without a fight.

But you do not fight a storm. You do not fight an earthquake. You do not fight a tsunami. You do not fight the very fabric of reality ripping itself apart and collapsing upon itself.

Ellana’s hair whips around in the wind as she stares into the horizon.

“Somehow I thought it would be brighter,” Ellana says. Four minutes and counting.

“Fire instead of ice?”

“Technically there’s both,” Ellana reminds him and she turns her hand outwards towards him. He takes it, their fingers fold together surely, calmly. She turns and looks at him, smiling gently - she looks like she’s trying not to cry. Bull squeezes her hand, and uses his free hand to rub a smudge of ash off her cheek.

He keeps his hand there, and he knows that they are losing precious seconds.

There’s a lot to say, a lot that he didn’t think need to be said, but somehow he feels is wrong not to be said now that they will never speak again.

“Hello,” Ellana says, putting her hand over his, still held against her cheek.

“Hey,” Bull clears his throat. He doesn’t need to memorize her face. It isn’t that he’s going to forget it. He’ll just stop existing. They both will. And there will be nothing for him to forget, or to remember. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a shit hole like this?”

Ellana laughs, eyes bright as she snorts and giggles and  _laughs_ , her face turning into the meat of his palm.

He listens to the sound of her laugh even as it’s ripped from her by the wind. He steps closer and there is no way to protect her from all of it, her laugh against the wind, but maybe he can have more of it for longer this way.

“What’s a shit hole like  _you_  doing in a nice place like this?” Ellana replies and they both laugh. She pushes into his arms, and he folds his arms around her as she presses her face into his chest. “The Iron Bull. Would you like to dance with me?”

“Sure,” Bull says. They don’t dance. They sway softly, neither of them willing to move their feet. Ellana breathes against his skin, and exhales a long sigh - as if she were sinking into bed or stretching out her back or taking off her shoes after a long day. “I’m not much of a dancer, though.”

“That’s okay, I’m not either,” Ellana says and he has to really strain to listen.

The wind is sending embers and ash and rocks against his skin and he bows his shoulders to curl over her even as she tightens her arms around him.

“I guess this is goodbye,” Bull says.

“No,” Ellana shakes her head, voice cracking as she tries to worm her way into his chest, his skin, his ribs.

“Kadan,” Bull says, cupping the back of her head and pressing her close, savoring the feeling of her breathing and her warmth and her hair, “Panahedan.”

Ellana’s shoulders shake, or maybe he’s shaking, or maybe the end is right on them.

“ _Dareth shiral,_ ” Ellana whispers, “ _Ar lath ma, vhenan.”_

She says more, but whatever it is is lost - he only knows the feeling of her lips moving as a darkness stronger than his own closed eye takes them both.

But he thinks he hears an echo of that whisper over the fire and ash and the dark.

_I will find you._

_-_

_“You did not,_ ” Cassandra says to Dorian as he tries to flag down Evelyn, “You did not make contact with an alien species.”

“Well, Cassandra, I  _know_  I did, and I have proof,” Dorian says as Evelyn frowns at him and excuses herself from the people she was talking to to walk over.

“What’s going on?” Evelyn asks, looking between the two of them, “What happened?”

“Dorian thinks he made alien contact, I think he hasn’t slept in three days without the use of sleep aids,” Cassandra says.

Dorian thrusts his notes at Evelyn, causing her to stumble back, “I  _know_  I made alien contact because the they’re still in contact and the Iron Bull is texting me updates.”

“Or humoring him,” Cassandra says as Evelyn takes Dorian’s notes.

“Dorian, your notes are a mess,” She says, looking at the pages, trying to make sense of them, “Seriously, what is this? Dorian, this is just the number  _pi.”_

 _“_ That’s for something else,” Dorian says, “It’s in there, keep looking.”

“Dorian, you smell,” Evelyn says, ignoring his research in favor of looking at him with completely unwarranted concern. “You need to shower. When did you last eat?”

“ _Later_ , I’ve made  _alien contact_ ,” Dorian says, glancing down at his phone and crowing out in delight. “Look for yourself.”

Evelyn and Cassandra look at Dorian’s phone.

Bull sent a picture of a very vague and shimmering light form that, if you squint and turn away a little, looks vaguely upright and humanoid.

Dorian  _thinks_  it’s copying whatever is closest and interacting with it.

“Look at this. This is not being faked. I am not being  _humored_.”

Evelyn’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline and Cassandra covers her eyes.

“What?”

Dorian turns to look at the phone and groans, “Of fucking  _course.”_

Bull has texted him -  _alien thinks I’m hot shit, I’m showing them to the Chargers._

“I’ve got to go before he corrupts my alien and makes them think Earth is a garbage backwater,” Dorian says, turning and running for his lab, “ _Keep those notes, I’ll be back for them!_ ”


	147. Chapter 147

“Oh, I like this,” Bull turns in time to see El-ana crouched down next to some scrapped service-bots. She’s pulling some heads out of a pile and looking between their faces. Her eyes flash and he waits as she scans one of the faces, the features of her face flicker with a fine net of pale green as the hologram of her face rearranges itself.

The color of her synthetic skin fluctuates for a few seconds before settling on a pale green with a series of freckles over her nose, which has now changed to match the service-bot she just scanned. Her mouth belongs to a home-care droid they met a few weeks ago, and her shaped and fold of her eyes are borrowed from a very old photograph from some old film.

“What do you think?” El-ana asks.

Bull taps the side of his nose, “Your pixels are glitching. I can see your coating.”

El-ana immediately drops the projection to reveal her real face underneath as she quickly touches her fingers to the off-white shell of her cheek, “Oh no, already?”

“We’ve been out for a while and your coating isn’t made to last like mine is,” Bull says, slowly bending down to take a closer look. “Yup, must have been that last sand storm. We’re halfway to Dagna’s place. I’ll send in a message to let her know we’ll need more than just post-storm maintenance. You feel anything wrong with that part?”

“Running a diagnostic, wait,” El-ana says. Bull watches the cameras of her eyes return to their default setting as she switches her attention from him to her own parts, “It doesn’t  _feel off.”_

“You know I don’t know what that means,” Bull reminds her.

“You know that I don’t believe that,” El-ana replies, “You might have been built a war machine, The Iron Bull, but you’ve been made into something far better. I don’t know why you like to pretend otherwise. It seems very contradictory to the rest of your personality matrix.”

“I don’t know why you ever left your commune,” Bull sighs then gestures towards the pile of service-bots and their unblinking eyes and jumbled body parts, “You done borrowing?”

“Maybe you could use one of their optic cameras,” El-lana says turning to them, “It won’t be anything as high tech or fancy as the rest of you, but maybe it would help your processors.”

“They’ve held out this long with the one eye,” Bull says, “For all we know it’d fuck them up if we introduced a new signal source to the equation. I’d rather not have to deal with a brain technician dicking around my operating systems for any longer than necessary.”

“You’d rather not have a brain-tech in your systems at all,” El-lana says standing up, her face flickering back up with that fine net of green before she creates a new face overlay again. “Alright, I’m ready.”

“You good with that face? I don’t want to get stopped because you’re unnerving people around us because you can’t choose if you want a crooked or straight nose.”

“It’s fine,” El-lana says, waving him off. Her face is now bright pink with lavender spots. A few seconds later the rest of her coating changes to match. “Let’s go, you’re so sour. I bet you’d be changing all kinds of colors if you had my camouflage coat. Besides, I know why you’re  _really_  sour. It’s because you like my  _default_  face.”

“What am I supposed to say to that?” Bull shrugs his shoulder, ignoring the warning  _whirr_  of his right shoulder. Something definitely got fucked up in the last sandstorm. Maybe he needs a new radiation coat? “It’s entirely true.”

-

“I am, head over heels as they say, in love,” Ellana says throwing the door of the lab open.

“Is it a cat?” Evelyn asks.

“Is it a dog?” Kaaras erases his section of their white board and starts to carefully and neatly write down new notes. They’re actually the same notes he just erased. Dorian thinks that Kaaras thinks that if he just keeps rewriting his notes he’ll eventually figure out something new he overlooked.

It’s worked before so Dorian can’t say he thinks the methodology is a wash, but somewhere in Dorian’s mind, he still thinks it’s a complete wash.

“Is it someone who took pity on you with your sad everything and gave you a bit of their lunch?” Dorian asks to give some variety to this conversation.

“No,” Ellana says, letting the door swing shut behind her as she walks in, getting herself settled at her desk, “No, and  _no_.”

“Is it a reptile of some sort?” Evelyn asks, chewing on the end of her pen as she watches Kaaras write his notes over again, “Kaaras can you  _please_  just take over writing  _everyone’s_  notes?  _Please_? Anything is better than Ellana’s experiments in calligraphy with  _dry erase markers_.”

“She’s very good at it,” Kaaras says, “Also did you see dry erase drawing she did of our autoclave? It’s really realistic. She got shading in and everything. Is it a  _bird_?”

“There’s a time and place, Kaaras,” Evelyn sighs.

“Is it a marsupial?” Dorian asks.

“No! All of you  _no!_ ” Ellana says, “But thank you for noticing my talents and efforts in applying cross hatching to dry-erase art, Kaaras, I really appreciate you.”

“Alright, is it a plant?” Evelyn says, running her hands over her head to pull her hair into a pony tail.

“Is it a new drink from the tea and snack shop - the one just next to the bus stop?” Kaaras asks, “Or is it pumpkin spice season already?”

“It’s August.”

“I saw Saturnalia decorations at the wholesale store this weekend. I’d take pumpkin spice season  _a month_  early over Saturnalia  _half a year early_.”

“Is it a video game character?” Dorian asks, having abandoned his attempts at further going into his own part of their research half an hour ago.

“No, no, and  _no_ ,” Ellana says, and then wrinkles her nose. “Wait, maybe yes to the last one.”

“ _Maybe_  yes?” Dorian’s eyebrows raise. “That one wasn’t a question you could stop partway through, Ellana. That’s a question you have to  _commit_  to. A person can’t just be  _three fourths_  a video game character.”

Ellana turns a very serious gaze on him, puts her chin on her hands and says - incredibly ominously - “He’s a  _man_.”

Kaaras gasps so loud he chokes.

Evelyn’s hair-tie goes flying across the room.

Dorian slips out of his chair and falls down hard on his ass, hitting his head when he tries to get up. He clutches to his desk for dear life as he gapes at her over his mounds of scratch paper and rough drafts.

“A  _what_?”

“He’s a  _man_ ,” Ellana repeats, “Dorian, I know you know what a man is because you are one and you happy to fancy a great many of them.”

“You what a what?” Evelyn gapes, auburn hair falling down over her shoulders and out of her hands as she stands there, frozen like a deer in headlights. “You  _what_  a  _what_?”

“A  _man_ , Evelyn, you have  _sex with one! You had sex with one at our quarterly barbeque retreat!_ ” Ellana throws her hands up, “Evelyn you are standing in a room with two men as we speak, why is this so hard for you all to understand what a man is?”

“Define,” Kaaras says very slowly, “Define  _love_.”

Ellana gives the three of them a look of complete and utter disgusted disappointment.

“I  _respected_  all of you,” She says, “I’m going to go tell Maxwell because  _he’ll_  be supportive of me. I bet  _he_  won’t ask me what  _love_  is.”

And just as dramatically as she came in, Ellana stands up and strides out of the lab again.

“She’s coming back because she left her research here and no man will come between her and her research,” Dorian says. “Right?”

“I don’t know, Dorian,” Evelyn says shaking her head as she slowly sits down right on the floor, “I just don’t  _know_.”


	148. Chapter 148

He makes it to the Principal’s office and he’s only two minutes late.

“What did you do?” Bull says as soon as he sees his kid sitting in the hallway. He’s got to be prepared to either defend his kid or possibly make nice with the teachers. It could go either way.

For once Krem doesn’t look beat up which Bull considers to mean that he’s possibly in the right this time.

He glances at the other boy sitting next to his kid, a small narrow eyed and sullen looking kid that looks to be about Krem’s age. He doesn’t look beat up either, but he looks like he lost a fight.

Somehow Bull gets the idea that this kid doesn’t lose fights often. But he does possibly start them.

“It wasn’t me,” Krem says and then quickly looks at his bench partner, “It wasn’t him either.”

“Alright, but what should I be - “

He hears the sound of heels rapidly clicking down the hallway floor and the three of them turn to look. A woman is racing towards them, she skids straight past the Iron Bull, almost toppling over herself as she comes to a winded stop in front of the other boy.

“Mahanon, please, we can’t keep doing this,” The woman says, ignoring Bull and Krem completely. “I mean, there’s only so much Dad is willing to ignore.”

The boy scowls fiercely and he crosses his arms, turning away and slumping in his seat.

The woman runs a hand over her face and through her hair, shoving it out of the way before looking at Krem and then Bull, slight embarrassment flickering over her features before she straightens up and then double takes.

“You didn’t get in a fight?” The woman blinks, looking puzzled as she looks between the boy, Mahanon, and Krem.

“No,  _mother_ ,” Mahanon sneers and the woman grimaces. Mahanon rolls his eyes. “I did not beat him up, I don’t even know him.”

Bull looks at Krem for confirmation.

“I’ve seen him at recess,” Krem says, “But I don’t know who he is.”

“Then what is going on?” Bull asks, because the only thing they told him over the phone was that he had to come pick his kid up, there’d been an incident, and that no one was seriously hurt but it was a serious infraction of school policies.

There was, of course, concern. There always is when it comes to Bull’s kids. Like no one can believe that a forty year old man can successfully foster six kids by himself. Bull thinks he’s doing pretty good. Rocky’s in his senior year of high school with what looks to be a full ride to college, Skinner’s joined her middle school track team, Dalish’s gotten into some Honors courses, Grim’s a teacher favorite, and Krem’s got the kind of character you want to have around. His kids are good kids. Bull thinks he’s stupid lucky with that.

The door to the principal’s office opens and a beady eyed man with a very bad mustache and an argyle sweater beckons them in.

Bull grimaces and Krem sighs. Mahanon slides off the bench and follows his mother in without a word.

Krem goes in after and Bull closes the door behind as they squeeze into the tiny room.

Bull recognizes Krem’s teacher, an auburn haired woman named Evelyn, and he guesses that the man in the argyle is Mahanon’s teacher, and the principal just looks between Bull and Krem then Mahanon and Mahanon’s mother and sighs.

This is going to be a very long meeting.

-

“I’m proud of you for doing the right thing,” Ellana says as soon as she hears the click of Mahanon’s seatbelt.

“But?”

“But I just wish you wouldn’t do it in a way that gets you in such obvious trouble,” Ellana says.

“How?”

How, indeed.

Overall this isn’t the worst of the fights Mahanon has gotten into. No one was even physically hurt this time. And Mahanon’s reasons were sound.

Ellana understands that children should not be fighting - with words or with fists - at school. She understands that Mahanon shouldn’t be putting pill bugs and centipedes in other kid’s desks or cubbies and that he shouldn’t be spreading rumors to hurt other kids.

But Ellana also understands that when you see someone being hurt, being picked on, being ridiculed and targeted -  _you stand up for them, no matter what you have to do_.

It’s just incredibly hard to do that and get it right, to get it done in a way that doesn’t incur penalties.

Ellana hates this.

“Are you going to tell your dad?” Mahanon asks, voice lowered.

“I’m going to have to tell him about why I left work,” She says, “And why we’re home so early.”

Mahanon lowers his head and curls up in his seat, hugging his backpack to his chest. He hadn’t even had lunch yet. His lunchbox is sitting on the seat next to him.

“Not,” Ellana says, “So early, though.”

Mahanon’s eyes flicker to her as she starts driving them towards the grocery store.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, Mahanon,” Ellana says, “We’re going to pick up some groceries.”

“It’s not Friday.”

“Well, we don’t have the ingredients for what I want to make,” Ellana says, “We’re going to get groceries. And then we’re going home. And we’re going to make lunch. We’ll make a peach crumble, too, you know that’s Dad’s favorite.”

And Mahanon’s. She can see the curiosity in his eyes, suspicion and excitement.

God, she thinks, she’s so bad at this. She wasn’t meant to take care of kids.

“And the three of us will sit down and eat lunch while the peach crumble is setting,” She continues, “And while we’re doing that we’re going to explain to him why we’re home so early.”

Mahanon looks, instantly, sad.

“I am going to tell him that you saw some bullies picking on a boy for being transgender,” Ellana says, “And that no one else was stepping in so you did. Because that’s exactly what Dad and I taught you to do.”

What your real parents taught you to do, Ellana thinks. What your real mother and father taught you to do.

“I am going to tell him that you got called in because while it didn’t get to fists you took your words to be, what some would consider, too far and that was seen as unfair. I am going to tell him that both I and the boy’s father think that it’s incredibly unjust for you to be the one who’s punished when the perpetrator goes on without reprimand and without due correction for the situation. And then the three of us - together - are going to brainstorm ways for you to handle situations like this in the future.”

“So i don’t get caught?”

Ellana turns and grins at him briefly before turning back towards the road, “So you don’t get caught.”

Mahanon snickers softly and when she glances at him in the rearview mirror, Mahanon’s legs are kicking a little as he looks out the car window.


	149. Chapter 149

Solas hears the front doors open and slam shut - Mahanon - and then a few seconds later open. When Ellana closes the door he doesn’t hear it, but he does hear the sound of her heels in the front hallway before she gets to the stairs and takes them off.

He returns to studying the documents in front of him while Mythal argues with her assistant Abelas on the conference line.

He hears the sound of the floorboards outside of his office creak as Ellana passes, her way of letting him know that she needs to to talk to him. All of them know exactly where the boards creak in this house, not avoiding them is a courtesy.

He’s almost entirely sure that Mythal doesn’t need his help on this case and that she’s going to win it without his input. She just calls him so he can play the demon’s advocate for her, something he thinks Abelas can do perfectly fine.

“My daughter and her son are home,” Solas says when Mythal starts meandering off into another tangent and annoying philosophical monologue that Abelas is trying and failing to get back on track onto their current case. “You have a firm grasp of this case and the defendant’s team doesn’t have any of our siblings on it. You’ll win, like you always do.”

“Tell your girl I said hello and that I’m very proud of how she handled her last case,” Mythal says, “And let the boy come visit me more.”

“Over my dead body,” Solas replies.

“I’m sure it can be arranged,” Mythal laughs.

Abelas sighs, “We thank you for your time, Solas. As always your patience in dealing with Mythal’s many what-if scenarios is greatly appreciated.”

“You’re welcome, Abelas, it was an interesting mind exercise,” Solas says, ending the call before Mythal can start up again.

Solas rips the notes he was taking out off of the writing pad and carefully folds them before he starts ripping them apart.

Ellana knocks.

“Welcome home,” Solas says and she opens the door, walking in and then flopping onto the sofa against the wall, worming her way into a more comfortable position and then wiggling herself as far into the crevice between the sofa cushions and back as she can. “You’re too old for that, you don’t fit.”

Ellana just presses her stockinged feet against the arm of the sofa and huffs.

“Mythal says hello and that she’s very proud of you,” Solas says, “It was the domestic abuse case that ended in a fire and failed double suicide?”

Ellana nods and then rolls over, looking sullen like she’s still twelve and Solas is the first time father that didn’t know how to say no to her when she looked that sad.

“No,” Solas says and Ellana groans, rolling straight off the sofa onto the ground. He hears her crawl over to his desk. Her hands grip the edge and she raises her eyes up above the edge to give him a very sad look. Solas raises an eyebrow, “You really are too old for that.”

“But you’re not too old to fall for it,” Ellana says. “I didn’t even say anything and you’re telling me  _no_. I’m your favorite daughter.”

“You’re my only daughter,” Solas says, “What do you want, my favorite  _and_  least favorite daughter?”

“Rude,” Ellana huffs. “I don’t want anything. Maybe I just wanted to be with you. I miss you. Dad, we don’t hang out anymore.

“We work together.”

“Work isn’t hanging out.”

“She wants to date.”

Both of them turn to look at Mahanon who’s standing in the open doorway, changed out of his clothes for school and into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt with a cartoon owl on it.

Solas turns his chair and beckons him forward.

Mahanon dithers for a few moments before walking in and climbing into Solas’ lap for a hug. Solas closes his arms around the boy and turns back towards Ellana.

Ellana scowls at him, “You tattle. I don’t  _want to date_ , I just want to go out. Make a friend.”

“He’s a single parent,” Mahanon supplies helpfully, nuzzling his head under Solas’ chin.

“Now  _he_  is cute,” Solas says, indicating the boy in his lap, “His age makes this behavior appropriate and cute.”

Ellana wrinkles her nose at Mahanon, “You little brat, you stole my moves. I should have moved out as soon as I got you rather than let Dad meet you.”

Mahanon blows a raspberry at her.

Solas narrows his eyes, “You want to date a single parent.”

“Haven’t you always wanted more grandchildren anyway?” Ellana says, “I mean, if he and I become friends then Mahanon will have a bunch of other kids over all the time. And let’s face it, this is the only way you’re getting more grandkids. I know you, old man, you miss having the sound of tiny feet in this house.”

“I was starting to appreciate the sound of having no feet but my own in this house,” Solas says, quickly rubbing his hand up and down Mahanon’s back to assure him that it’s a joke. Mahanon has always been easily made nervous by comments made in jest. “And the house was only just starting to recover from  _your_  childhood, da’vhenan.”

“Please, it’s not like I was a rowdy child,” Ellana says.

Mahanon pulls away to look up at him and Solas gives him a weary smile, “Ellana was  _not_  a rowdy child but she did sneak all manner of animal into this house and  _hide them_. She was very good at it and I would usually end up having to manually go through the entire house to find the creature or set traps and hope I could catch her going to it. If there is anything you should be learning from her it’s how to not get caught at doing something.”

“You’re not supposed to tell him that, Dad,” Ellana groans, “Then he’d do it to me.”

Mahanon’s teeth flash in a smile.

“The greatest joys of parenthood, da’vhenan,” Solas says, setting Mahanon down and standing up, stretching and feeling his back crack and pop after sitting so long, “Is having a child like yourself and showing you exactly how much of a terror you were to your own parent.”

“He’s the single parent of the boy from the fight three weeks ago,” Mahanon says, slipping his hand into Solas’, “Solas the man is taller than you and he looks like a thug, I don’t like him.”

Ellana groans from where she’s starfishes out on the floor, she whines, “ _Daddy_. Let me make friends!  _I’m so lonely_.”

Solas ignores her. “Tell me about him.”

“I want to negotiate my outside playtime.”

“It’s on the table, depending on the kind of information provided.”

“ _Hahren_ ,” Ellana yells from the office as they go down the stairs, “Stop undermining my authority!”


	150. Chapter 150

“Evelyn,” Bull nods at Krem’s teacher. She smiles and slowly pushes her grocery cart over next to his. “Krem’s running around somewhere in the ice cream aisle.”

Evelyn tilts her head and laughs, “I think I hear him.”

“I should probably tell him to knock it off,” Bull says, he doesn’t though. “What’s up? More computer trouble?”

“No, thank you for your help last time, though,” Evelyn says, “You know, Bull, Krem told me something interesting the other day.”

“No,” Bull says immediately and Evelyn shakes her head but follows after him anyway. “Don’t you have bags of dog food to be loading into your cart before you start shopping for people food?”

“Nah,” Evelyn waves her hand, “Cullen took care of that on Tuesday. Anyway, Krem told  _me_  that  _you_  think that Mahanon’s mom is pretty.”

Bull grumbles under his breath and Evelyn lightly kicks his cart.

“Don’t worry, I already knew. I know the look you get when you think someone is pretty  _and_  interesting.”

“Shut it, Trevelyan,” Bull says, “I should have never put my kids in your school.”

“What, you’d send them to Vivienne instead? Even if you did take her discount you’d be broke within the year. Do you want me to get her number for you?”

“ _No_ ,” Bull says, “Isn’t that an abuse of power or something? Why would you have Lavellan’s number?  _Don’t give me that look_ , I heard her name when we were in the Principal’s office, Evelyn. It’s not hard work to figure out.”

“M _hm_ ,” Evelyn says, “And I  _don’t_  have her number. Kaaras does, they do the book drive together and they’re friends. Kaaras was Mahanon’s teacher when he first transferred in and he grew attached.”

Bull can just picture it now. It’s very hard  _not_  to get attached to Kaaras.

“I’m not getting her number. I can think someone is pretty and interesting without it turning into something more.”

“That’s certainly true,” Evelyn nods. Bull senses a  _but_  happening. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to make some new friends.”

“I have plenty of friends.”

“You can never meet enough new people or make enough friends. Besides, I think your kids are about to adopt her kid,” Evelyn says. Bull groans and covers his face with his hand. “It’s not their fault, you taught them everything they know about nesting and taking strays. If it makes you feel better I think her kid thinks he’s adopting  _your_  kids, so that might speak to how similar you and she are and how you could get along pretty well.”

“I met her once, I don’t want to creep her out,” Bull says. She’s got to be - what. Twenty seven? Twenty eight? A forty year old man she met once at her son’s school suddenly texting her out of nowhere would be beyond creepy. It would be  _criminal_ , probably. He’d be slapped with a restraining order so hard his neck might pop.

“You could do this in a non-creepy stalker way,” Evelyn says, waving at a flash of dark brown skin and darker hair that dashes past the end of the aisle.

“Don’t run,” Bull says. “Krem, I mean it this time. Knock that shit off. Pretend to be civilized for the next half hour until we’re done here.”

“Yes’sir!” Krem yells back.

“ _And don’t yell_ ,” Bull says.

“You could go through Kaaras, have him set something up,” Evelyn says. “Kaaras says that Ellana could use a friend. She doesn’t know any of the other parents and she’s kind of struggling with. You know.” Evelyn waves her hand vaguely. “And you could probably help.”

“No, I don’t know, help with what? She need computer help?” Bull asks.

“No,  _parenting_ , I mean,” Evelyn says.

“She’s got a pretty good kid,” Bull replies. Not many kids would stand up for a complete stranger and be willing to get in trouble for it.

“Yes, but I think it’s hard for her, being a single parent. She could use advice. You’re a single parent of six kids.”

Bull blinks, “She’s a single parent?”

“Yeah,” Evelyn nods, “It’s a sad story. You didn’t know?”

Bull shakes his head. “She kept mentioning a dad.”

“ _Her_  dad, Mahanon’s grandfather. The three of them live together. Her dad is a real hard ass, old fashioned and stuff,” Evelyn says, blinking slowly. “Wow, you really don’t know?”

“Know  _what_?”

“Nothing,” Evelyn says and Bull believes absolutely none of it. “Anyway, if you’re worried about stepping on toes, don’t be. Ellana Lavellan is a single parent who could use advice from another single parent. Someone to talk to, at least. And I think you’re a really good single parent.” She smiles. “And a really good friend.”

Bull shrugs, “ _Passably decent and socially aware_  is a really low bar but I guess I meet it fine.”

“You always sell yourself short,” Evelyn shakes her head. “Anyway. If you’re really against it I suppose Kaaras shouldn’t have given her your number.”

Bull stops walking and stares at Evelyn’s head as she keeps on going, picking a few cans of cream of mushroom soup off the shelf.

“He  _what_?”

Evelyn throws a grin she must’ve learned from Dorian at him.

“For once, Bull, I think you’re behind in the game. Ellana Lavellan asked Kaaras about you the day after you two met in the Principal’s office. Mostly she wanted to tell you that she’s sorry if Mahanon caused any trouble and that if you had any trouble with the administration about Krem’s status she could help you, but she was also  _definitely_  interested in being friends.”

“Son of a  _bitch_ ,” Bull swears and then grunts when he feels something hit his calf from behind.

“What happened to being  _civilized_?” Krem asks, throwing three bags of chips and four tall bottles of brightly colored sports drinks into the cart. Thankfully he’s missed the eggs.

“Civilization is for kids and old people,” Bull says, roughly ruffling Krem’s hair and then shoving him off, “Find me a vegetable to balance this out and you can keep it.”

Krem’s gone again.

“ _Don’t run_.”

“So,” Evelyn says as she inspects cans of chicken broth, “You want her number or not? You going to wait for her to make the second move?”

“I regret ever moving into this district,” Bull says but pulls out his phone to text Kaaras. “Should’ve taken that contract and moved the hell out of this city.”

“You’d miss us too much,” Evelyn says, “You big soft lump.”


	151. Chapter 151

His supervisors want to see if he can find any new and interesting talents at the Triwizard tournament.

Bull’s not sure about that, and he’s never had a taste for the games. The Southerners are cruel and strange to their children, he thinks to put them through such dangerous situations for the sake of something as petty and fleeting as  _school pride_.

But then again, they don’t teach wandless magic and they sort their children into houses and pit them against each other for sport.

And they call the Qun  _uncivilized_.

Bull finds himself in the packed stands for the first trial of the games, standing next to Cassandra. Bull, himself, went to Durmstrang as a transfer and was alright with it. They’re the only school that takes international students, anyway. Cassandra went to Beauxbatons at around the same time he went to Durmrstrang.

Her brother died during the games.

“You going to be alright?” Bull asks, because the set up for the first trial looks unfairly familiar.

But the wizards of Orlais and Ferelden are  _old_  and they like their traditions. If something isn’t broken - or if they don’t realize something is broken, they won’t fix it.

The first trial is the dragon trial.

Cassandra’s fists slowly close in her lap, eyes fixed on the ring.

“Yes,” She says, quietly, and she looks a little ashen.

This year’s candidates are a soft spoken Qunari boy from Durmstrang that Bull - though he should probably be cheering more for his alma mater - just hopes doesn’t  _die,_ a cheerful looking boy from Beauxbatons that Bull thinks is going to win this thing - he shows real promise based on what Cassandra showed him of her current file -, and a barely at the age threshold girl from Hogwarts. She looks interesting enough, but Bull is pretty sure that the Beauxbatons boy is going to get it. Maxwell, he thinks his name was.

Maxwell’s magic is average but he’s pretty athletic and he’s a quick thinker.

The Qunari boy - Kaaras - is very good at charms but Bull doubts the boy has what it takes to make significant headway in the tournament. Kaaras looks more like a thinker than an actual  _do-er_.

Bull turns his hand out for Cassandra and she ignores it. He leaves it anyway.

Once the announcements for the games begin, he feels her grow more and more tense before her hand finally reaches out and almost crushes his for dear life.

Kaaras is up first and he’s up against a Northern Hunter. This version of the round doesn’t just involve just stealing the golden egg, but it also awards points based on how many of the eggs from the clutch the student can take without damaging before fifteen minutes have passed.

Bull watches and it isn’t hard to make himself impartial, even though he can feel Cassandra doing her damn best to grind his hand into dust. Kaaras manages a few illusions and decoys. They’re incredibly convincing. He mentally re-evaluates Kaaras’ aptitude when the boy transfigures some portions of the surrounding rocks into metallic discs and uses them to bounce spells around the arena to distract the dragon.

By the end of it, though, Kaaras has the golden egg and one more undamaged. Kaaras drops one egg and loses points for that. He’s also scraped up his entire right arm and the right side of his face. He might have a concussion.

Maxwell is next after a few teachers go in and return the arena to how it was, setting up again.

Cassandra breathes out a long and rattling breath as they watch Maxwell face off against his dragon. A Fereldan Frostback.

It looks poor for Maxwell at first, but his shield spells are surprisingly sturdy and he makes good use of his surroundings. About seven minutes in, Maxwell has no eggs, but he’s managed to trick the Frostback into burning itself into a corner of molten and hot stone on the opposite side of its own clutch.

Maxwell gets the golden egg and manages two more - shrinking them and stowing them away in his pocket - before he has to run for it. No eggs damaged.

The gap between Maxwell’s fight and the next is longer - there’s more to repair. After all, it wouldn’t be fair if the Hogwarts champion had the advantage of the Beauxbaton’s champion’s work.

“Fuck,” Cassandra swears softly. Even Bull has to grimace when he sees the glowing eyes and the deep magical purple of a Vinsomer from the cages.

Vinsomer’s are  _mean_. Most dragons are, but Vinsomers take it to another level. Not quite a Hivernal, no, but still. Vinsomers fight giants. Vinsomers make storms. Vinsomers can literally change  _landscapes_.

Bull hates these games.

Last is Ellana. When she comes in the Hogwarts crowd unfurls banners of green and silver. A large group of students have enchanted their banners to take life and spin and weave together into the shape of an undulating serpent. Bull watches the display with an incredulous sort of happiness. This is a surprise.

Either they really want to win or maybe Hogwarts really  _has_  changed.

The real surprise, however, is what happens next.

Ellana Lavellan does not use magic to fight the Vinsomer.

Ellana Lavellan transfigures a rock into a basket that she straps across her back and she  _runs_. The Vinsomer has trouble aiming for her - it tries to crush her, it tries to blow her away, it tries to slam her into rocks and corners, it tries to pin her down.

Ellana Lavellan  _runs_. She climbs. She leaps. She slides over the arena, wand safely stowed away as she scrambles up and down rocks as if that’s what she went to school for instead of spells and history.

Ellana Lavellan, by the time fifteen minutes has ended, has run the Vinsomer in circles and has filled the basket on her back with as many eggs as could fit.

The golden egg and six more eggs, magicked into a smaller size.

The winner, without question, is Ellana Lavellan.

And the crowd goes  _wild_  for her.


	152. Chapter 152

“Krem’s last name is Aclassi,” Mahanon says as he helps her some files from the office into the house. She doesn’t know why Dad insists on keeping paper copies but she has a strong feeling at least part of it has to do with him wanting to make her do stuff.

“Oh,” Ellana blinks as Mahanon picks up a few of the papers that slid out of their folders when she was figuring out if she could carry one or two boxes without falling and cracking her head on their driveway.

“All of his siblings have different last names,” Mahanon continues, pushing the door open for her as she carefully enters the front hall and deposits the boxes by the entryway table. “Their dad let them keep their last names.”

Ellana’s stomach churns for an incredibly anxious and hot moment as she looks at Mahanon’s face and tries to see what’s behind those words.

Mahanon is harder to read than any juror or judge in a court.

“Do you - “ Ellana begins, and she has to swallow and quickly look at the boxes and then back at him, “Do you want to change your name back to Mahariel?”

Mahanon’s face twists and flushes red. Ellana’s heart sinks isntantly.

She always gets it wrong.

 _I’m sorry, Theron,_  she thinks at Mahanon’s father, her best friend, her brother.  _I’m sorry Theron, I was better as an aunt than as a mother._

“I’m a  _Lavellan_ ,” Mahanon snaps, turning and running into the house.

“That could have gone better.”

Ellana looks up to see Dad coming down the stairs.

It always could go better, Ellana thinks and turns around to go back to unloading boxes. She feels it in her heart rather than hearing it when Dad takes a moment to consider either his grandson or his daughter to go to first, before following after her.

“You should have more confidence in yourself,” Dad says softly as she pulls out the last box from the back of her car. “He loves you. He calls you his mother.”

“He still remembers his real mother,” Ellana says, “He calls me his mother because he thinks he has to.”

She never told him that. She thinks that maybe it’s something he did to avoid scrutiny at school or when they’re in public.

She always feels guilty for how happy she feels when she hears him call her that.

Dad shakes his head, taking the box from her easily. Ellana closes the trunk of her car and locks it, following after him into the house.

“Just because he remembers his birth mother doesn’t mean you can’t be his mother, also,” Dad says. “He can choose you to be his mother, he  _has_  chosen you to be his mother.”

And because Dad has always been a little heavy handed at times, he also says, “You know that if his parents were still alive, they would have raised him to consider you a mother, too. As he considered Lyna like a mother, as well.”

Ellana can’t help but flinching at the name of her sister.

Dad puts the box down and then turns to her, gently raising his hand to brush her cheek.

“Ellana, imagine how it must feel for him to have you rebuff him at every turn. He wants to be close to you. You aren’t helping him by forcing him to keep a distinction between  _aunt_  and  _mother_  at this point.”

Ellana’s shoulders hunch.

“Remember why you took him,” Dad says softly, “When Theron and his wife died, when it was between you and Lyna you told Lyna to take him because you believed that Mahanon was more hers than yours.”

“Lyna and Theron were blood siblings,” Ellana says, “I was just - “

“You were still their sister,” Dad says, squeezing the side of her neck, “Just as you are my daughter, even without a genetic relation. And when Lyna died, and you fought me to convince me to let you take him in - don’t you remember your passion? Your pain?”

“My selfishness?”

“What was it you said, Ellana?” Dad says firmly.

 _He needs his family_ , she had said,  _he needs to be with the family that knows him_.

He could have gone to his mother’s family. He could have gone into foster care.

Ellana takes in a deep breath, “I don’t want to replace them.”

“Then don’t,” Dad replies calmly, “You can be his parent without replacing the ones he has already lost. Go to your son. I will handle the files. Your organization is abysmal.”

-

Ellana is barely managing with Mahanon and she has her Dad to help. She has no idea how the Iron Bull manages  _six children_  without anyone at all.

It’s absolutely mind boggling.

“I can work from home,” the man shrugs as she watches his children quickly and seamlessly absorb Mahanon into their conversation at the other side of the cafe. Apparently it wouldn’t be cool to be seen with their parents, even though they - according to the Iron Bull -  _insisted_  on being here for this initial meet up. “It makes things easier. My boss is very chill.”

“Oh,” Ellana says and she wonders if she accidentally said something out loud again. “I’m sorry.”

Bull’s mouth quirks up at the corners, “Don’t worry. I’m used to it. Usually the first question is where do I find the time or  _how_  in general. I was covering my bases.”

Ellana doesn’t remember being this awkward. She likes to think she does pretty well with meeting people, making friendly chatter and such.

But this is, somehow, different. And more important.

“How old is he?” Bull asks.

“He’s eight,” Ellana says.

Eight and she can’t believe she gets to keep him.

“I’d rattle all of mine off, but they’d get embarassed,” Bull says, “Apparently it’s not cool for adults to know their ages or anything about them, so I’ve been banned from talking about these freeloaders.”

Ellana snickers, “They’re going to give Mahanon ideas. He’s eight and he thinks he’s going on sixty.”

“A wise soul in a young body.”

“More like a cranky soul in a young body,” Ellana says, “He takes too much after his grandfather. It’s terrible.”


	153. Chapter 153

“That,” Bull says making a half-hearted grab at the claw in Lavellan’s hands, “Is not for you.”

Ellana ignores him and continues picking dirt out from under her nails with it, “Of course it’s for me. You gave it to me.”

“I gave it to you to  _hold_ ,” Bull says, “It’s for your mentor.”

“And we all know that he’s going to give it to me  _after_  that, just like he did with the griffin,” Ellana says shooting him a smug look. “You realize that whatever thing he makes you go after next is also going to be mine, right?”

Bull grumbles under his breath about bratty witches and annoying old mages.

Ellana blows a raspberry at him.

“How’s the nest going?” Ellana asks as Bull works on arranging the egg with the enchanted heat stones.

“It’s  _going_ ,” Bull says, “What the hell does he need a Basilisk for?”

“I’ve always wanted one,” Ellana says, “But whenever I asked he said it was too much trouble for him and I couldn’t be trusted to try and breed one myself.”

“And  _I_  can?”

“Obviously he’s thinking that you’ll do terribly at it and nothing will hatch,” Ellana says, “But you have me to help you hatch my future baby. And I suppose  _your_  future baby because this is all being done in the spirit of getting him to say yes to me adventuring with you.”

“How do I even know he’s not going to say  _no_  afterwards?” Bull asks.

When Bull figured out how to get the griffin back to Solas the man looked like he’d swallowed an entire bucket of lemons and calmly directed Ellana to charm the thing.

Ellana had scoffed, flipped her hair over her shoulder, left Bull’s side to kiss Solas on the cheek, pet the griffin on the beak and calmly reply,  _don’t be slow, hahren, I’ve had Butterbean charmed for the past twelve days._

Solas’s face then did a thing where it looked like he’d just realized  _what_  he’d gotten himself into.

It didn’t stop him from saying Bull’s next task was to hatch a Basilisk for him.

“At this rate the entire adventure will be over before I even get permission to bring you,” Bull says.

“We’re having our own adventure,” Ellana says, “And isn’t it lovely just the two of us?”

Bull gives her a flat look and gestures at where he’s been attempting to get a cockerel to sit on the egg without the cockerel going away or the egg getting too cold.

“Four of us then,” Ellana says and Bull groans into his hand, the other hand busy holding the cockerel in place.

“You could always just  _not_  do the task and we could go off right now,” Ellana says, putting the claw down on the table.

He’d used it to carve runes into the heat stones. He’s not even sure if they’re working or not. He’d followed Dagna’s instructions to the letter.

He finds that he’s sorely tempted to do this.

“Evelyn would just send us back,” Bull says after a few minutes of her staring expectantly at the side of his head.

Ellana groans and throws herself away from him and out the window, bemoaning the proper and upright character of their friend.

Bull stares at the cockerel and glares at it, “ _Don’t_.”

The thing pauses right before pecking his hand and gives him a very innocent look that Bull isn’t buying.

He probably should’ve asked Ellana to charm the thing before she went swanning out the window.

-

“Solas, this is ridiculous. He’s not here to court me, he’s here to escort me to one of my closest bosom friends to assist her in an adventure,” Ellana says, throwing open the door to Solas’ study and relishing the sound of it banging against the wall.

He doesn’t even look up from where he’s carefully measuring morning dew onto a sprig of holly.

“It doesn’t matter what his intentions are,” Solas says softly, “What matters is that he still has to ask me and I said  _no_.”

“You don’t even have a good reason to say no,” Ellana says, throwing herself into his armchair by the window. She half heartedly nudges at one of the potted plants on the ledge until it perks up a little. “Do you?”

“Aside from how it’s very dangerous and I don’t like you hanging about that crowd?”

“Aside from your own personal bias, yes.”

“Then no, not really. I wasn’t aware that I needed one,” Solas says and Ellana rolls her eyes up towards the ceiling.

The armchair softens and lets her sink in a little bit more.

“The house is on my side,” Ellana says as she stares at the ceiling.

“Unfortunate, I’m still saying no,” Solas says.

“He brought you the griffin.”

“He brought  _you_  a griffin.”

“At  _your_  request.”

“Challenge. Not a request.”

“Semantics.”

“Magic and tradition are nothing if not semantics, and if you don’t know that by now you’ve given me yet another reason to say no.”

Ellana throws her hands up in the air, “You’re such a stubborn old coot.”

Solas hums, “As you say.”

“He’s hatching you a basilisk right now.”

“Perhaps I should have said a cockatrice.”

“What would you do with a cockatrice?”

“What would I do with a griffin or a basilisk?”

Ellana slumps in the chair and then turns herself sideways. The chair stretches out to accommodate her, turning itself into a divan.

“Solas.”

“No.”

“Hahren.”

“ _No_.”

“ _Please_?”

“I said no. I still mean no.”

“What’s the third challenge going to be? Please? At this rate the entire adventure will be over and you’d have spoilt my first and possibly only chance of going adventuring with my friends. After this they might not even want to  _be_  my friends anymore. Is that what you want, Solas? For me to end up a lonely, lonely lady in a tower without a single soul to talk to?”

“You’ll have the griffon and the basilisk.”

Ellana scowls at the back of his head.

“You just want me to die miserable like you!”

“On the contrary, I’m quite entertained at the moment, thank you.”

“You’re impossible!”

“Again, Ellana, if you didn’t know that magic and tradition are made of impossible things I’m going to think that you aren’t a mage of any sort at all and are just a complete and utter novice.”


	154. Chapter 154

“Adequate,” Solas says after a few minutes of quietly observing the six inch long feathered serpent curled up on top of the heated cloth Bull had bundled into a small basket. Solas wordlessly waves his hand and levitates the basket from one side of the table to the other.

It’s entirely arbitrary and Bull grinds his teeth against the motion.

The basilisk’s nose and tongue poke out from its small coils before nervously retreating into its nervous ball. Bull’s not sure how this is supposed to be the supposed  _king of serpents_ , but Bull also has no idea why the hell Solas asked for one.

“And your next task, if you still wish to proceed,” Solas says and then stops meaningfully to give Bull a very patronizing  _look_  with raised eyebrows.

Half of him wants to give in and say  _no_ , he doesn’t wish to proceed with this farce. But Evelyn and the rest of their party are waiting - attempting to stall their quest for as long as possible - so Bull can get Ellana there with full permission from her mentor. Bull doubts that Solas would do anything if they  _didn’t_  get his full permission.

But a small part of him can’t help but bitterly think that Solas  _would_  be the dramatic and petty fuck who’d send an party  _against_  them to drag his apprentice back kicking, screaming, and sparking along the way. And he’d be within his rights to do so.

“Yes,” Bull says and at least it’s the last task. Solas didn’t initiate a seven task trial of which Bull is grateful and can’t help but think is very sloppy of the man. If he  _really_  didn’t want to give permission, that’s what Bull would’ve done. Maybe Solas was caught off guard. Stranger things have happened.

It’s taken Bull a month to hatch that Basilisk, and Bull only got it done so fast because Ellana forced him to start on a new moon and worked her own special brand of magic to get things to hurry along faster.

Evelyn’s last letter - and Sera’s, and Krem’s, and Dorian’s, and Herah’s, and  _Cassandra Pentaghast’s_  - had all been attempting politeness but falling short in how they were asking him  _what the fuck was taking so long_?

Evelyn’s letter, at least, had suggested that it wasn’t his fault that this thing was taking so long and expressed a very small dose of sympathy.

But he can tell she was beginning to crack and starting to consider doing things in a less proper and traditional way.

Rocky’s letter had read something along the lines of  _I think the Inquisitor is going to crack and have you abscond with the baby mage_.

“Your final task,” Solas says, “Is to gather one jar of cream and honey.”

“And?”

Solas raises an eyebrow, “And what?”

“No, you tell  _me_  the  _and what_ ,” Bull says, “That’s how this task thing works.”

“The Iron Bull your third and final task is to gather one jar of cream and honey,” Solas says slowly, “There is no  _and what_.”

“That’s it?” Bull blinks. “You just want - a jar of cream and honey? Don’t you have that in your larder? The first two tasks were literally me getting you impossible creatures and the final one is  _cream and honey_?”

Solas’ other eyebrow joins the first.

“Are you not up to the task, the Iron Bull? Is this where you say  _no_?”

Fuck no, Bull thinks, he can see the end of this shit-show.

“No, this is not where I call it quits. If you want cream and honey I’ll milk the fucking cow for you. Fuck y - “

“ _Don’t you dare say yes to this conniving, scheming, foul old goat_ ,” Ellana bursts through the window in a flurry of wind, leaves, sharp light, and heat that tastes like summer storms at the back of Bull’s throat. Ellana strides right up to her mentor and jabs him in the chest, “How  _dare you!_ ”

And then Ellana quickly turns on Bull and casts her arm out at him and he’s shoved - not hard, almost like he’s being knocked back by a warm and lazy wave - into the nearest chair. And then held down by - it’s not uncomfortable, it just feels like a hand on his shoulder is telling him not not get up.

Bull is mostly fine with this except for -

“Ellana, leave it, all I have to do is - “

Ellana’s eyes widen and she casts again and Bull’s mouth clamps shut.

“Don’t say it,” Ellana says, “Don’t say yes, don’t agree.”

And then she turns to glare at Solas.

“I knew it was  _too easy_.”

Bull’s eye bulges out as he stares at her. Too  _easy_?

“A griffin and a basilisk,” Ellana says eyes narrowed. “An animal I’ve wanted to see since always and my dream pet. At first I thought you were just being petty and making him bring me all the things I bugged  _you_  about. But then I did some thinking and realized -  _you aren’t.”_

 _“_ I’m not?”

“Well - you are, but there’s something under that, too. You didn’t give him the Seven, _”_ Ellana’s dark hair raises and crackles out around her head like she’s been struck by lightning, “The traditional challenge for someone seeking a boon or favor is  _the Seven_. You gave him a a Three Task.”

“I can count.”

Ellana’s eyes narrow into furious slits and her hair looks like a black, heavy thunder cloud. Complete with flashing lightning in between the strands.

“ _Don’t,”_  She hisses through too-sharp teeth, and her glamor starts to fall short of hiding how much  _magic_  she is. “You gave him a  _Courtship_  trial.”

Bull turns to stare at Solas immediately, panic rising in his chest.

“A griffin terrorizing our woods,” Ellana ticks off, “A companion and gift I’d longed for and would keep close to my heart.  _Cream and honey_.”

Bull removed a threat. He gave her a gift of favor and kindness.  _He almost provided for her table_.

If he wasn’t already sitting he thinks he’d have fallen on his ass.

“You were going to  _bind_  me to him!” Ellana throws her arms up, and every loose paper in the room goes hurtling towards the ceiling in a mad rush, “Is that literally the only way you would let me leave? If I were  _bound to another?_ ”

“Well,” Solas says looking around the room slowly, eyes not so much as even pausing on Bull, before looking back at her with a tired resignation in his eyes, “I suppose it’s up then.”

“It’s  _up?_ ” Ellana screams, “ _It’s up? That’s all you have to say about unceremoniously and dubiously binding me off to the Iron Bull without our consent or awareness?_ ”

“You knew,” Solas says, eyes sharpening - his own glamor purposefully pulling back a little to show fangs and the suggestion of eyes where eyes shouldn’t be. “Do  _not_  pretend to be  _daft_. You  _knew_. You knew the moment I permitted this farce to begin. You felt it in your soul, in the land, in the  _house_. You felt the magic of a courting begin and you  _ignored it_. Do not seek to pin the blame on  _me_  for your  _ignorance_.”


	155. Chapter 155

“Your house,” Bull says slowly as he enters the Rose Room for the seventh time - not in a row. He’s trying to get to the third floor library, but Skyhold keeps bringing him to the Rose Room. In between opening what he thinks is the door to the library and finding the Rose Room, he’s also found some sort of old torture chamber (based on the equipment inside, the stomach-churning musty smell, the stains, and the general feeling of  _pain_  that came at him when he opened the door), an old boudoir kept in remarkably good condition considering the rest of the place (the only damage he could really see was a thick layer of dust, tarnish on the metal, and the sort of dull and dated color of a all the fabric).

Skyhold is probably trying to send him a message.

“What about it?” Lavellan asks as she lounges on an orange-pink sedan she’d pushed against a long and tall window that opens out onto - impossibly - a large field of gold and white flowers that stretches out into the horizon. The sky is eye-waveringly blue with picturesque looking clouds that lazily crawl across the sky with wind that causes the fields to ripple.

He’s never seen that view before.

“Your house is trying to tell me a message and I’m not sure what,” Bull says.

He’s been here - in total - almost two years and he still doesn’t know the exact language of this house. He thinks that during the time the Chargers were called back for the hearings, the language of the house  _changed_. Shifted.

It’s like he’s learning it all over again.

“Poor form of you,” Lavellan says, rolling over onto her side, head pillowed on her folded arm as she looks up sleepily at him. “Alright, hit me. What’s my castle trying to tell you now? Is the toaster going to kill you? Is the flat top griddle cross?”

“I’ve been trying to get to the third floor library for half an hour,” Bull says, “Every time I open the door to it I’m either here, in some sort of torture room, or what looks like a boudoir.”

“I’ve never seen a torture room, though considering Skyhold’s age I’m not surprised,” Lavellan shrugs. “A boudoir?”

“Yeah, looks alright, too,” Bull says, “Not so bad condition. Livable with some dust and furniture polish.”

“Hm,” Lavellan tilts her head, “Well. I don’t think you need me for this one. It sounds fairly obvious.”

“To you, maybe,” Bull says, sitting down in the arm chair closest to her. Bull doesn’t even question it when a tray of tea things comes rolling in, stopping next to Bull with a cup of coffee next to a tall glass of iced tea. “Translate it for the rest of us common folk.”

Lavellan rolls her eyes and sits up as the tea tray rolls over to her. She picks up her glass of iced tea and a cucumber sandwich.

“Bull, Skyhold is giving you a shovel talk,” Lavellan says. “Its warning you off about doing something stupid.”

Bull stares at her.

Lavellan laughs, “Skyhold is a very protective castle.”

“From  _what_?”

“You,” Lavellan says, tucking her feet underneath herself as she starts investigating the rest of the tea cart’s contents. “Skyhold knows that you’re a very dangerous man and wants to make it clear it wont have any of that.”

“I’m somehow dangerous to a magical sentient  _castle_.”

“No, you’re dangerous to  _me_  and that makes the castle vulnerable,” Lavellan says, “The castle knows I love you. The castle knows I’ll do stupid things for you. And the castle knows that things like this tend to end quite badly - just take a look at the drama pieces in the Sapphire sitting room.”

“Things like  _this?”_

Lavellan looks at him through her lashes, “Things like  _us_.”

And then she smiles, “Don’t worry, I like you too much for the castle to actually do anything.”

-

“It’s too quiet,” Lavellan says, squinting into the mirror. A few doors down in the mirror she sees Solas come out of what should be the Sapphire room. “Solas, it’s too quiet.”

“I know,” Solas says. And he looks so healthy and vibrant and  _alive_. He looks  _younger_. Not young, just not old and cancerous and dying. He looks peaceful and Lavellan  _hates_  him for it.

She doesn’t know if that hate is her or Skyhold or both.

But she knows that the guilt she feels for hating him is entirely her own. Skyhold feels no shaman hating its former master for finding happiness and peace away from it.

“What do I do?” Lavellan asks, because this is all still very new. The murmuring of shadows in her ear that could be Skyhold, or something other, or something new inside of herself that’s only just started to wake up. She feels new. She feels unsteady.

“Watch the woods,” Solas says.

“Which ones?”

Solas’ eyes are unimpressed. “You know which ones.”

“I banished them,” Lavellan says. “They have no power here, not to come back.”

“Their souls are on this side,” Solas says, “But their remains are on  _your_  side. There’s a chance. It’s a weak one but there’s a chance.”

“Not while I hold dominion,” Lavellan sneers.

“Walk the castle, walk the boundaries. Claim Skyhold as yours with everything you are,” Solas says, “They’re trying to take a foothold on the neglected places, the shadow spaces. Don’t let their rot seep in.”

“I’m  _trying_ ,” Lavellan says, “Do you know how much castle there is?”

“Time and space are nothing,” Solas says, “They are what you define it.”

She starts to feel a headache coming on and the castle around her groans in response.

“Walk the land,” Solas says, “Live it, breathe it, become it. Stamp them out.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Lavellan says, slowly opening and closing her hand.

“It was, once,” Solas replies, looking away from her. And she sees the shadow of the young man he was - perhaps on the other side, before Skyhold was cut off. “You could kiss the whole world in one day, if you wanted.”

But Lavellan doesn’t want to kiss the whole world.

She just wants to leave this one.


	156. Chapter 156

“So, any of your teachers or professors give you tips?” Maxwell asks, falling into step next to Ellana as she tries to coax Kaaras into saying something without immediately getting self-conscious and clamming up.

“That’s cheating,” Ellana says.

“The games have at tradition of it,” Kaaras says and then quickly shuts his mouth. Maxwell reaches around Ellana and claps Kaaras’ shoulder, laughing.

“See? That’s the spirit. No harm in telling the well worn truth, Kaaras. Is that a yes?”

“Unfair, no one’s told  _me_  anything. Aside from the two of you,” Ellana says. “Where’s my line of alumni and professors and other such people giving me helpful hints? All I have are a bunch of scouts from various job professions watching my every breath and murmuring about me in the stands. Terrible, really.”

Maxwell had told her about the dragon. Kaaras had told her about the puzzles.

Ellana feels incredibly bad for not having anything to contribute back.

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, I happen to know that you  _like_  the attention from a very specific auror,  _Lavellan,_  if not you wouldn’t be mooning at him from the wings every time we do a challenge or gather for some sort of meet and greet with the press,” Maxwell says, causing Ellana to scowl at him. She doesn’t  _moon_. She just thinks that the Qunari next to Seeker Pentaghast looks incredibly  _interesting_. “Anyway, we’re about Saturnalia now, we’ve got a small break from dying for school vainglory. What say you to that?”

Kaaras groans, “I’d rather face the dragon again.”

As if on cue, Kaaras’ miniature dragon claws its way out of his pocket and starts screeching. Ellana’s pops up out of the hood of her cloak and Maxewell’s joins in on the fun from the breast pocket of his winter coat.

The three dragons go off, spiraling into the air, bickering and teasing.

“We can go together,” Ellana says, slipping her arm through Kaaras’. “There’s no rule that says we can’t. I don’t have anyone to go with, either.”

Her brother graduated two years ago and Ellana doesn’t really have anyone else she’d rather go with. And she likes Kaaras. Kaaras is very sweet and she hopes that they figure something out so they can visit over the summer holiday.

“Damn,” Maxwell sighs. “Actually.  _About that_.”

Ellana and Kaaras exchange a look.

“Don’t tell me  _you_  don’t have a date, Trevelyan,” Kaaras says, covering Ellana’s hand with his own as they prepare to march off and leave Maxwell behind. “Don’t you even think about telling us that.”

“Exactly right, Kaaras, let’s go leave the golden boy to his many, many admirers,” Ellana says and then the two of them dash off in a flurry of snow - Ellana’s cloak billowing out behind them as they leave Maxwell sputtering in their wake.

Ellana suffers through shin-deep snow and Kaaras, after a moment, picks her up and starts running with her in his arms. Ellana laughs, looking over Kaaras’ shoulder as she watches Maxwell try to keep up.

If only Kaaras were like this  _all the time_. He’s such a darling, then everyone would see it.

Then Ellana would possibly be down one date to the Saturnalia Ball and that wouldn’t be exactly awful if it would mean Kaaras would feel more comfortable but it would be something of a trouble.

“Would you two!” Maxwell gasps out when Kaaras finally slows to a stop and sets Ellana down. Maxwell wheezes and Kaaras is also out of breath. Ellana is out of breath but it’s from laughter. “Yes, I have plenty of options but I don’t like any of them.”

“Oh, how nice to have options,” Kaaras muses.

“Will the two of you let me finish?” Maxwell says, rolling his eyes and scooping up a handful of snow, half-heartedly lobbing it at Kaaras’ face. Kaaras generously holds still. The poorly made projectile falls short and low and only manages to hit Kaaras’ chest. “I was hoping that you’d go with my cousin, actually. I think I’m supposed to take her - our parents want me to bring her so she can  _debut in the eyes of the world_  or something. You can tell she’s the favorite. Honestly, I don’t blame them, she’s  _my_  favorite, too. She’s everyone’s favorite.”

“If she’s the favorite why isn’t she the champion for your school?”

Maxwell’s smile is wry and he says, “In her words?  _If you think I’m going to put my name in for this antiquated farce of a school bonding tradition designed to kill children for sport then you are out of your mind and need to be committed immediately_.”

Ellana and Kaaras exchange glances, “Then why did  _you_  put your name in for the antiquated farce of a school bonding tradition?”

Maxwell shrugs, “Well. I had to enhance my prospects somehow. And this seems like a good resume builder.”

That’s horribly depressing.

“Anyway, I don’t want to be my own cousin’s date,” Maxwell says, “So I was hoping Kaaras would take her.”

“But if Kaaras takes her, who am I supposed to go with?” Ellana pouts, “Kaaras is my date.”

“As of  _five minutes ago_ ,” Maxwell grouses. “I didn’t even hear him say yes.”

“I went from zero dates to two, this is infinite returns,” Kaaras muses, brushing snow off of Ellana’s hair. “ _My_  sister won’t believe this.”

“I’ve gone from one to zero, my brother will laugh me out of the house,” Ellana replies. “Well why can’t  _I_  be your cousins date, Maxwell? I think it’s highly unfair of you to just offer your cousin as a date to Kaaras.”

Maxwell rolls his eyes, “Well. Whoever who isn’t  _me,_  preferrably. I’ve been trying to get her set up with this boy she has her eye on from Durmstrang but she’s just not having it, lads. She’s just not having it.”

“Who? Maybe I can help?”

Ellana quickly flicks snow at Kaaras’ face with her wand, “Kaaras!  _No!_ ”

“What?”

“If you set her up with the Durmstrang boy then  _we’re down to three people_. Three people can’t make one date. I mean - it could, but it’s against the stupid rules of the ball.”

“Three?” Kaaras blinks.

Ellana gestures at Maxwell, “If Maxwell’s cousin goes with the Durmstrang boy, then which of the three of us is going to go with Maxwell and get left behind without a date?”

Kaaras and Maxwell both blink at her.

Ellana gives them both annoyed looks, “Maxwell, you aren’t actually going to say yes to any of the people who want you to go with them.”

“Well,” Maxwell rubs the back of his neck, “No, but, maybe with time my outlook on these prospects will be better and I wouldn’t be as uncomfortable.”

“ _Boys_ ,” Ellana rolls her eyes and throws her arms up in the air, “Impossible boys! Alright. I’ll take care of this. Maxwell, you’re now Kaaras’ date. Congratulations. I’m going with your cousin. What’s her name?”

“Evelyn and - wait, why can’t I go with  _you_?”

“Maxwell, don’t be  _daft_. It doesn’t matter who goes with who because by the time the Saturnalia Ball is in full swing and we’ve been formally announced and it’s all said and done, we’d have sent your cousin off to be with her Durmstrang boy and the three of us will be interchanging throughout the night.”

“So, you’re going to foist Trevelyan’s cousin off on the boy from Durmstrang,” Kaaras says, “ _Mid ball_ , mind you, and then the tree of us will swing.”

“Yes.”

“I  _love it_ ,” Maxwell says, throwing an arm around Ellana’s shoulder and awkwardly reaching up to get his other arm around Kaaras, who has to bend down at an angle for it to work. “We have to coordinate our outfits, you realize.”

“Of course,” Ellana sniffs, adjusting her scarf which is not nearly as warm without a miniature dragon curled up in it, “It should go without saying.”


	157. Chapter 157

“So when are you going to marry my mother?” Mahanon says and Bull looks down at him, and then at Ellana, and then at the gaggle of annoying children that aren’t Mahanon but are still his kids.

“You,” He points at his other kids, “Knock that shit off, like you weren’t asking Ellana if you could call her mom and shit two weeks ago.”

Then he points at Ellana, “You, stop having a mental break down.”

And then he turns back to Mahanon, “I’ll marry your mother after we’ve had a long discussion about our expectations from this relationship and our current priorities in life. There’s a lot you have to negotiate to enter a relationship like that and to be frank, as things stand, I don’t think we’re there.”

Mahanon, at twelve, looks like he’s heading down a road of incredibly intense and deeply interesting life choices. Four years of exposure to Bull’s children and he’s harnessed that keen edge of his into near lethal and he isn’t even in his official teenage years.

They’re going to have their hands full of extremely moody and highly skilled teenager in about two years once puberty settles and Bull isn’t looking forward to it.

Ellana still looks like she’s having a mental break down and Bull reaches across the table to take her hand in his. Ellana slowly blinks at him.

“You broke  _mom_ ,” Stitches says, giving Mahanon a sullen look.

“Grandfather says that he’s waiting to walk her down the aisle and you should make an honest woman out of her,” Mahanon says, either ignoring Ellana’s impressive attempts at disappearing into the very ether, or noticing it and not caring. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

“Did he say that to  _you_  or were you eavesdropping?” Bull asks.

“If he knew I was eavesdropping it’s the same thing,” Mahanon says.

“It isn’t and you know it,” Rocky says, ruffling Mahanon’s hair and bravely ignoring the twelve year old’s fierce scowl. “I’m so glad Krem picked you up.”

“He did  _not_ ,” Mahanon replies, “ _I_  picked him up.”

“You keep thinking that,” Dalish says, “But you’re outnumbered, little brother.”

Mahanon turns to Ellana, “I picked him up  _first_.”

“Sure,” Ellana says, “ _Solas wants to what me down a what_? He doesn’t even believe in the institution of marriage!”

“I think he was just saying it to rile you up,” Bull says, squeezing her hand, “Anyway. I don’t think me marrying your mom is what you want for Saturnalia. If it is, maybe save that one for high school graduation or college acceptance.”

“But you’ve already been together  _forever_ ,” Dalish whines, “You’re telling me I have to wait another five years for my dream wedding?”

“Isn’t your dream wedding supposed to be  _your_   _own_  wedding?” Krem asks, nose wrinkling.

“My dream dad and my dream mom getting married surrounded by my siblings?” Dalish flips her light hair over her shoulder, “Who cares about  _my_  wedding, I want to see  _this one_. Can you imagine? It would be a  _riot_.”

“There’d probably be a literal riot on mom’s side,” Rocky muses and Grim nods, glancing at Ellana and quickly patting her hand when she starts making noises of mortification.

“You’re the sweetest one of the bunch, Grim,” Ellana says, “I bet he’s only saying that because he wants to get back at me for helping Mythal win her case when he told her not to take it. Mahanon, stop eaves dropping on Dad. You know he says things when he knows we’re listening in to put us off. Bull’s right, marriage is a very, very important and big step in a person’s life and it needs to be discussed very thoroughly. There are so many factors to consider.”

Mahanon sullenly jabs at a meatball and then pushes his plate towards Rocky to take it.

“But you love each other,” Mahanon says, “And you love us, so what else is there? If it’s finances Aunt Mythal has been bugging Grandfather for your financial information for the past two years so she could start working on pre-nups.”

“I’m not letting anyone on your side watch the kids anymore,” Bull says.

“Agreed,” Ellana nods holding out her glass as Bull holds out the wine for her. “It’s not about finances, Mahanon. Though that is a very good point.”

“Is it about sex?” Mahanon asks and half the kids burst out into laughter and the other half cover their faces with their hands. “Because it’s been four years, I think the two of you understand how sex isn’t going to work.”

“This can only be your side,” Ellana says and Bull accepts that easily.

“Alright, so one of us has to be available to watch the kids at all times, seeing as how neither of us have people trustworthy enough not to corrupt them,” Bull says, “It’ll take some doing but I think we can figure something out with our schedules.”

“It is not about sex or the decidedly understood and agreed lack thereof,” Ellana says, “Mahanon, baby, it’s just a  _very big step_  that needs to be talked out. Marriage isn’t for everyone. You can be happy and in love with someone and not be married to them.”

“If you’re going to say Aunt Mythal and Uncle Elgar’nan,” Mahanon starts, eyes narrowed.

“Of course not,” Ellana says, “I was going to say Dorian and Kaaras.”

“Oh,” Mahanon blinks, “Alright.”

“Oh alright?” Krem repeats, “That’s all you needed?”

“Well,” Mahanon says slowly, nose wrinkling, “It’s  _Dorian and Kaaras_.”

“Even if you don’t get married can we have a big party where everyone we know is invited?” Dalish asks, “We have bets on who fights who.”

“They come by that part honestly,” Bull says to Ellana who just rolls her eyes upwards despairingly before taking a mulish sip of her wine. “I swear, they were like this when I got them.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Ellana says as the table bursts out into chatter about who really would win against who and under what conditions, “It’s just that I can’t believe  _all of them_  come by it naturally. Is it contagious, do you think?”


	158. Chapter 158

“Unnerving,” Ellana says, examining her nails as she leans against Mahanon’s scales.

Mahanon scoffs, the rasp of his tail slowly dragging over packed dirt is a violent and physical sound on the ears, a promise.

“Better than being a predictable dullard,” Mahanon replies. “You march on Corypheus in two days. Where else would I be? I have been waiting for you for almost two weeks as your slow and loud and cumbersome army plodded on like sleepy eyed pack mules without a single original thought shared between them.”

“You’re very hard on them.”

“I’m saying what you refuse to say out of enforced politeness,” Mahanon sneers, “Peculiar how they only now are starting to respect and defer to you, isn’t it? Now that they know I can snap their necks in half, rather than be crushed in that little shell you wore around your neck. How attitudes do change with the appearance of teeth.”

“It helps that I’ve done a few things,” Ellana says, “Here and there, you know. The odd bit of kindness and the occasional turn of phrase that sounds pretty.”

“Are you meant to be the butter to my salt?” Mahanon muses, “Is that what you want them to think?”

“Better than them thinking we are salt and vinegar, the saying is you catch the flies with honey,” Ellana says, turning her eyes towards the Anchor. “Does it seem different to you?”

Mahanon shifts his weight slowly as he turns his massive head to look at it, “Different how?”

“More - green?”

“More green?”

“More in general, I think,” Ellana says, staring into the white depths of the light in her palm. “Just more. It  _feels_  - that’s the odd thing, actually, it doesn’t feel. It used to hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt?”

“You became accustomed to the pain.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to many pains, Mahanon. But just because we’re used to it doesn’t mean it goes away entirely. It’s still there if you look to think on it. This isn’t. This is  _gone_.”

She flexes her fingers, slowly opening and closing them, running the pads of her fingers over the mark and watching the green light bleed through her skin, illuminating from within.

“It’s changing,” Ellana says.

“We are all changing,” Mahanon replies.

“Do you feel a difference?”

Mahanon doesn’t answer her. For a moment she thinks he’s ignoring her, gone back to sunning himself.

But then he says, very softly, “My scales feel tight, as though there is something within me that wants to emerge. Something different.”

She turns to look him in the eye, eyes quickly scanning over his body for any sign of injury. There’s the faint green sheen to his scales that she can catch at certain angles of light as she tilts her head to examine him. But nothing else.

Mahanon lowers his voice, “Ellana, I feel as though we are children again. And I could be a pup to lick your wounds or a crow to peck the eyes of the ones who tease you. I feel as though I could be a snake curled up by your neck when you sleep, and then just as easily a cat to knead your skin. I feel -  _malleable_.”

Ellana’s mouth runs dry and she feels their uncertainty like twin strings on a lute, plucked together and vibrating in synch.

“We are all changing,” Mahanon repeats, voice wavering slightly. “And Ellana, I do not know who is the one making the changes.”

-

“I’m leaving,” Kata-kost says and Bull nods at her as her powerful wings spread. He doesn’t watch her go. She calls down, “Do your best to follow.”

The distance they can manage apart is fairly impressive, but it’s nothing like Ellana’s and Mahanons.

“I need something, anything,” Bull says and the quartermaster gives him a hard look but then nods at him and directs him to take one of Ellana’s dracoliscs that she had brought along with her hart.

The lizard eyes him warily but lets him mount easily enough, and even though the lizards aren’t really bred for running through forests they’re agile and mean looking enough that most things would avoid one charging.

They go and it took them almost two weeks to get up here but Bull cuts that down to one. He stops at two Inquisition outposts and Cullen must have sent a message ahead of him because each time he gets to one there’s a new mount waiting with fresh supplies.

By the time Bull makes it to Skyhold, news of the Inquisition’s victory and Corypheus’ escape has already broken to the masses and the castle is in a flurry of activity.

For once, the guests and gawkers are scarce. Maybe they know the end is near and they don’t want to be around for the possibility of loss.

Or maybe he’s just that lucky.

“Garden,” Kata-kost says, dropping down low enough for him to hear before rising up again and flying to the upper courtyards and to the garden itself.

Bull is tired and dusty and covered in sweat and travel.

His knees and hands ache, his back hurts, and his mouth is dry.

His heart is a heavy beat in his chest against his bones.

Somehow, this entire journey was nothing compared to the steps he climbs to get to her. It’s nothing compared to what feels like a completely unnecessarily heavy door that he pushes open.

Kata-kost shuffles in after him, her wingspan can’t clear the door. Her feathers and talons rasp and whisper against the stone.

There are a few candles lit, but it is mostly dark.

Ellana sits on the floor, seemingly alone. Bull doesn’t doubt Mahanon’s strange ability - despite his size - to melt and blend completely into shadow.

“How much of it was a lie, do you think?” Ellana asks. “They lived, and they hated us. Are we so quick that we are no longer worthy of being called  _elves_?”

“Don’t,” Bull starts but it looks like she’s been waiting for this because she keeps going.

“But did you see them, Bull?  _Did you see them?_  Surely you did - surely you went looking for me in that place afterwards. Did you see them? Their armor? Their weapons? The remnants of their magic? Their - their daemons?”

Ellana turns and her eyes are bright with envy and hate and spite and longing and so many things Bull wants to take away and hold until she’s ready to sort them all calmly and with the distance of some time.

Kata-kost presents herself before Ellana and wordlessly allows Ellana to pull her into her arms and run her fingers through her feathers. It feels like long, warm, sweeping rushes of water on Bull’s sweat-slick back and he breathes out a long, shaking, sigh from the bottom of his lungs.

“Varghests. Wyverns. Skelks. Foxes. Wolves. Bears. Halla,” Ellana says, “They were like  _me_.”

“They are nothing like you,” Kata-kost says.

“They hid,” Bull says, “They chose ignorance and fake neutrality. They are not  _you_.”

“I want what they have,” Ellana says, “I want it and they said I was not worthy. Everyone said,  _I was not worthy_.”

“Did you listen to them?” Bull asks. He does not know the details. He didn’t stop for an update.

“When in your time of knowing,” Mahanon’s voice says quietly from directly behind him, and Bull feels the warm and whispering brush of scales over a muscled shoulder press against the back of his thighs as the varghest slides around him, their bodies brushing as Mahanon raises his face to Bull’s, “Have you seen us  _listen_  to being told something is forbidden to us?”

Ellana’s eyes glimmer with something  _new_  and  _other_  and  _magic_.

“They tried to tell me it was not mine to have,” Ellana says, “Never again will someone take what is mine from me, Bull. Not Corypheus or Samson, not Morrigan or Solas,  _no one_. The Well is  _mine_. Not some shem’s or some non-beleiver’s. I prayed, I worshipped,  _I am the one who sought favor_. If there is one thing that the Sentinels spoke true to, it is that  _I am the one who earned the right_.”

Kata-kost preens, golden eyes glinting with pleasure.

Bull’s hand finds the back of Mahanon’s crest as he slowly runs his fingers along the undersides of spines and scales.

“I know you did,” Bull says. Because it isn’t about him believing her or not. Ellana has always gotten by fine without belief.

It’s the acknowledging and knowing part that gets her.


	159. Chapter 159

"How do I do this?” Ellana asks frustration and tiredness soaking through her voice, “How do I be good at this?”

“At what?” Bull asks as he scans through items on the receipt Grim gave him. It’s not that he thinks Grim would try and cheat and buy extra shit that Bull didn’t give him money for or anything. He just wants to make sure his kid didn’t get cheated. Grim had solemnly handed him the piece of paper along with the change left over, waited until Bull told him to scram and play with his siblings, and then rushed off to join in the frenzy of the rest of  _everyone_  plus Mahanon.

If his kid got cheated he’d probably have to stop sending them to the dollar store two blocks over. He’ll find a new place for them to practice independence and stuff. It’d be a little more out of the way and slightly less convenient, and he’d probably end up just following from afar to make sure they’re safe. But it’d work out.

“This,” Ellana says, jerking her hand between them and then Bull’s back yard where he hears the sounds of their kids running around and yelling and laughing like the little tyrannical mayhem monsters they are. “Parenting. Being a good parent. Don’t tell me it’s something that comes with age or - or something that you’re just  _born_  with.”

Bull doesn’t need to look at her to know the expression he’ll find on her face.

Ellana doesn’t want this to be something that comes with age - by then it would be too late and Mahanon would have long left the protection of her house and of childhood.

If it’s something she’s born with - well, she’d be fuck out of luck.

“It’s a combination of all of that and just - thinking,” Bull says. Because there are parts that  _are_  from age and there are parts of this that  _are_  from something innate.

Bull wasn’t always this patient. And he wasn’t always this cool tempered. These are things he’s gained over time, like callouses and habits and creases and fine lines.

And parts of Bull have always been this calm at thinking outside of the box and handling multiple trains of thought at once. It’s part of what makes him  _him_.

“Everyone parents a little differently,” Bull says, “Don’t look at me and think you have to parent Mahanon exactly the way I parent Dalish or Grim or Stitches or any of them. He’s a different kid in a different situation. And you’re a different parent.”

The look Ellana gives him - part disbelief, part desperation, and a majority of disappointment - tells him she doesn’t believe it at all.

“You just have to talk to them, listen to them,” Bull says, “I don’t know half of what they think or feel about something unless they tell me. And by now they mostly get that.”

“But shouldn’t I just  _know_?” Ellana asks, “I should know what he wants. What if he hates me for not knowing what he wants?”

“What are you, psychic? How would you know what your kid wants if he doesn’t tell you? And if he hates you - then tough, that sucks, but you can’t help not being able to read his mind. You talk to him. And if he talks to you, you listen. And if you aren’t sure you ask him,” Bull says. “There’s no secret. There’s just that.”

And then, for good measure, Bull holds up the list and says, “Look. See here? I sent Grim over to the corner store about an hour ago to get some things. Little things. Napkins, some straws, a couple bags of hard candy. And I gave him twenty bucks. Grim looked nervous. He’d done this before plenty of times, so I didn’t know what was wrong this time. But he didn’t look like he wanted to go. I asked him what was wrong because I could tell he wasn’t happy or cool with something I’d asked him to do and I’m not sending my kid off like that.”

“And?”

“And he signed that he’d never gone by himself with that much money before and he was nervous he’d mess it up somehow,” Bull replies. “So I had Rocky go with him and wait outside the store where Grim could see him and signal for help if he needed it. And it was fine.”

“Just like that?” Ellana asks, skeptical, picking at her nails as she glances at Mahanon.

“It’s not always that smooth,” Bull admits, “But generally, that’s what works. They’re not  _puzzles_. You can ask them questions. I mean, mine ask me about two dozen questions per day. I don’t always have answers. But they can ask and I do my best.”

Ellana’s teeth dig into her bottom lip. “What if he asks for something I can’t give him?”

“Can’t or won’t?” Bull asks, “Because if it’s something you literally  _can’t give him_  then there’s nothing you can do and you have to try and get him to understand that. But if it’s something you won’t give him? That’s a different story. That depends on the reason why.”

Ellana presses the heels of her palms against her eyes.

“You’re the adult,” Bull continues, “Just remember that. Listening to what your kid is saying doesn’t equate to automatically giving them exactly what they want whenever. Dalish asks for cotton candy flavored toothpaste. Not in my house, we don’t. And she throws a fit every time I tell her to put it back when we’re at the grocery store, but again -  _not in my house we don’t_.”

Ellana almost smiles at that, and she says, “Mahanon insists on the most colorful sugary cereal. It’s practically candy. It turns the milk pink. I got it for him  _once_  by mistake and now he’s eternally craving it. Like some sort of sugar goblin with a deep addiction.”

Bull grimaces, “I think I know the one. Krem and Rocky swear by that shit. I didn’t even get it for them. Dalish got it with her allowance once and she hated it, but those two boys fell in love with that crap. I’m terrified of them getting cavities or early diabetes. I’ve removed cereal from our house to avoid that issue. It’s either a full on bacon-eggs-toast kind of day or instant oatmeal day.”

Ellana is now, definitely, smiling. “How terrible. No cereal at all? How do you even get them out the door in time?”

“Manually,” Bull says, “Most days I don’t even need to hit the gym. Getting them int he car is a thirty minute cardio-weights work out on its own.”

Ellana’s eyes flash a mischievous glint at him, “Getting Mahanon inside the house for a bath and bed is definitely leg day every day. There’s a steep hill in our back yard. He likes to run up and down it in a very large circle to avoid me. I’m already waiting for the day when his knees start to tell him  _no_.”


	160. Chapter 160

“You can't keep your child in a bubble, little brother,” Mythal says and Solas gives her a flat look.

“You can’t throw your children out into the wild with nothing but the clothes on their back, a hearty  _good luck_ , and a wave,  _big sister_ ,” Solas returns.

Mythal laughs, “But look at how good they all turned out! Daring and wild and incapable of demise by the most banal methods. Your girl looks like she’s on the road to wide, doe-eyed deceptions and tricks.”

“Just because I’m not throwing her at the most impossible obstacles doesn’t mean I’m not teaching her anything,” Solas protests. “She isn’t even  _ten_. I see no reason why I should be pushing her past her limits at such a young age.”

Mythal’s smile fades the smallest fraction, “Don’t you?”

Solas scowls at her, but he understands.

The world is much better than it was years ago when they first started and gained their positions of power in the embassies and the senates and the many, many councils. It’s a touch kinder, a little softer around the teeth. The world has almost forgotten that it was only thirty or so years ago that elves were crushed underfoot without question and that  _knife-ear_  and  _rabbit_  were interchangeable terms with  _elf_  and  _Dalish_. They aren’t segregated anymore and the idea of slavery - indentured servitude and the like - is something that most people will speak out against, if not act out against. The idea of slavery being wrong has begun to seep into the collective conscience of Thedas.

It is not all  _their_  doing. But perhaps the spark that tipped all of history over into that moment that lead to this was.

Still -

The teeth remain bared, though slightly blunted, but present. It is not entirely safe. There are places you just don’t  _go_ , people you still avoid and don’t talk to, there are protests thinly veiled under terms of economics and structural planning and legislature for the common good.

“Ellana will not have to fight for the right to exist, and she shouldn’t have to know how to,” Solas says. “She isn’t us. She isn’t Morrigan.”

Ellana is young, painfully young and unknowing of what it was like to grow up in a world full of people who weren’t like you and didn’t like you for that.

“She isn’t,” Mythal agrees, “But she already knows she has to. Her parents were killed during the riots, Solas. I’m sure she isn’t young enough that she missed that giant burning red flag. And she knows you’re someone very important - important enough to warrant guards and armored cars and constant security. She’s young and inexperienced, not oblivious and ignorant. I’m not saying that you have to do what I did with Morrigan and her sisters. I agree, the times are different. Things are radically different from five and ten years ago. Fifteen. Twenty. But you can’t just - shuffle her from her room to the car to school and then back. She’ll hear things. At school. In passing. And she’ll want to know. Do you want the only narrative she has being in hushed whispers and side-glances?”

-

“Sir, I ought to warn you - “ Mahariel starts and doesn’t get to finish because Solas hears a Ellana in the front room as she bellows out with her very small, very tiny, very  _young and incredibly delicate and did he mention little_ lungs -

“Hahren!” Ellana bellows out, “ _I’ve brought a friend from school_. Be cool about it!”

The last part is entirely Sera’s influence. He’s not too found of the young girl’s attitude, but overall she’s not a bad girl and she and Ellana are good enough friends.

Solas stands up, quickly sorting his work into their folders and stacks before going to greet his daughter. He still feels incredibly bad about not picking her up from daycare today - going to and from the daycare center is one of the very few times that he can give her his complete and undivided attention without her feeling like she has to be ready to give him up for a phone call or for a message or for an email or some other thing.

Ellana is standing in front of the door to their apartments staring at someone just outside as she makes repeated gestures for whoever it is to come in.

“I just said he should be cool about it!” Ellana says, “Come on! It’s okay! If it isn’t okay we can go.”

Go where, Solas almost asks but Ellana turns to look at him and she beams.

“I brought a friend from daycare because his Tama said it was okay,” Ellana makes the shape for  _okay_  with her small hands, dropping her backpack to the floor to do so.

Ah, the Qunari boy, Solas thinks and then goes to stand next to his daughter and welcome in -

Solas blinks.

The  _teenager_  standing outside his door awkwardly shifts his weight and then raises a hand, “Hi.”

Solas looks down at his  _four year old_.

She beams up at him, smiling and completely unaware of just how much of a train-wreck his mind is right now.

One, why is this _teenager_  at daycare with his  _Tama_  if he’s - at least - fifteen? And at fifteen a full half foot taller than Solas and looking ready to join the Qun’s army?

Two, how in the world did he not get information on this sooner?

Solas turns to Mahariel who grimaces and makes a vague and incredibly embarrassed  _oops_  gesture.

Solas then turns to the teenager at his door who looks completely aware of how awkward this is. And that - along with Ellana’s little, soft fingers curling around one of his, that gets Solas to sigh and give what he hopes is a genuine smile at the teenager.

“She did indeed tell me to be cool about it,” Solas says, nodding at him, “And if your  _Tama_ is aware of this, I do not mind. Come in. I’m sure there have been stranger things in this world.”


	161. Chapter 161

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asexuality is a spectrum *throws flower petals and glitter* ACES CAN HAVE SEX *THROWS STAR DUST* ACES CAN EVEN LIKE SEX! *THROWS SOLAR FLARES* RESPECT A L L A C E S *THROWS THE ENTIRE SUN*

Ellana has been staring out at the middle distance for the past half hour, her feet up on Bull’s lap as he tries to navigate through the latest RPG game everyone says he  _has to try_. So far what he’s learned is that he has no patience for captions and scroll through dialogue, and he’s lost almost  _all_  patience he’s ever had with this particular style of animation.

Bull would probably be more concerned about Ellana’s dead silence and staring into the distance if it weren’t something that elves are somehow genetically predisposition to.

Solas used to debate internally. Surana wages mental wars. Merrill wonders. Fenris brood poetically. Sera ponders. Ellana  _plots_.

This is great bonding time. Bull gets to sit here and doubt the tastes of everyone they know, Ellana sits in silence and thinks about the truest mysteries of the world and how to best rip them out into the bright light of day and flay them open for all to see. Sometimes Ellana will come out of these moments of staring with profound declarations like  _people are the harvests of trees_  and  _when your bones crack that means your flesh suit is ripe_.

They are as equally disturbing as they are, somehow, a little bit true.

“I think we should have the sex,” is what Ellana comes up with today and Bull drops the controller because he  _knows he didn’t hear her wrong_. He’s forty seven with one eye, eight fingers and a bum ankle, not deaf and senile.

Bull slowly turns to look at her and Ellana is staring right back at him, completely at ease with the declaration she’s just thrown out at him.

“You don’t have to call it  _the sex_ ,” Bull says.

“It’s like when you plan  _the wedding_  or  _the honeymoon_ ,” Ellana says, “You only have it once and it’s supposed to be a big momentous thing. Otherwise it would be  _a_   _wedding_ or  _a_  honeymoon. Or - like you get in  _the_  car, not you get in  _a_  car. Because if you tell me to get into a car I’d just break into whichever car I happen to like and is most convenient for hot wiring. If you tell me to get into  _the_  car I know you mean our car.”

“Alright, that’s fair but - why?” Bull asks.

“Because there’s  _absolutely no way_ ,” Ellana says, crossing her arms and sitting up a little, “Absolutely  _none_  in this entire  _universe_ , in this  _dimension_ , in this  _plane of existence_ , in this or any other reality, that Cullen and Evelyn regularly having sex has changed them this radically as people. They  _relax_  now. Evelyn seemed to suggest, while we were talking with the others, that this is a byproduct of regular orgasm. I sincerely doubt that. There are too many flaws to that argument. I mean - I’m sure Solas had regular sex back  _ye olden days_ , but he still lost all his hair.”

“I don’t think those things are related,” Bull says, “I didn’t lose  _my_  hair from stress.”

“No, you shaved it off because you’re a very simple man of elegant tastes,” Ellana replies. “Anyway. I think we should try the sex.”

“Because you want to test the theory of Cullen and Evelyn not being stressed due to getting laid regularly?” Bull asks, eyebrows raising. “I don’t see why  _you_  have to personally test it. We know plenty of people who do and don’t get sex regularly. You could just observe.”

Bull isn’t saying this to avoid having sex with Ellana. He’s saying this because he knows that there’s some other motive and Ellana is using this as a partial excuse. He can see it in her eyes.

“Well,” Ellana says, drawing herself up a little, chin raising just a bit and Bull gets ready for the most entertaining and baffling few minutes of his life, “You like sex. I like you. So…maybe we should have sex.”

“I also like you,” Bull says, “And sex has nothing to do with it. I mean, you like eating jam straight out of the jar. I get a stomach ache watching you do it. I’m not actually going to start eating jam out of a jar with you.”

“You’re the best at the sex,” Ellana says, trying a new approach, “If anyone is going to make this experiment work it’s you. And I can’t rely on anyone else you sleep with because you don’t really see them regularly enough for me to gather data. And I don’t know what they’re like aside from what you tell me or what I happen to guess based on the extremely rare times I’ve actually run across them in like - the real adult people world. And they’re usually either not aware of me or they book it like I’m about to light them on fire. Which is  _incredibly_  ridiculous, by the way. You don’t even tell most of them about me, I don’t know  _how_  they know.”

“You’re somewhat famous, babe,” Bull says, bending down to get the controller. “For serious, though, why do  _you_  have to personally test this theory?”

Ellana’s nose scrunches and then she says, “Because Evelyn said I wouldn’t get it.”

Ah, Bull rolls his eye and settles back, returning to the video game, “I can’t believe she told you that. It’s like she practically dared you to have - “ Bull pauses and then mentally shrugs “  _the sex_.”

“I  _know_ ,” Ellana says, “I can totally have the sex. Who says I can’t have the sex? We should have the sex.”

“To prove Evelyn wrong. And to prove that sex doesn’t magically change you into a not-anxious and constantly high strung mess of a person,” Bull says.

“Exactly my thoughts,” Ellana says, and she keeps staring at him. Bull’s hands pause on the controls.

“What, you meant  _now_?”

“No,” Ellana says, “Later? Tomorrow? Sometime during the week? When is good for you? How do people do this? Bull, how do you do this with other people.”

“Normally I pick them up at a bar, or I get picked up at a bar,” Bull says, “I’m not taking you to a bar so I can pick you up and then drive you back here.”

“That’s a waste of gas and also a terrible thing to do to the environment,” Ellana nods, lying down, shuffling herself on the couch so that her legs are further on Bull’s lap, the backs of her thighs against his left leg. Bull uses her shins as armrests. “We can just do it here.”

“Any special requests?” Bull asks.

“No role-play,” Ellana says immediately, “Because that’s a little silly to me and I would maybe laugh too hard and we’d never actually get started.”

“Alright,” Bull says. It would be a little weird to try that on her, given the circumstances. “Anything else?”

“The rest we play by ear,” Ellana replies, sitting up and kissing his cheek, pulling her legs back and standing up, “Save now, you’re about to hit a hidden boss fight. I watched Dorian play this like, four times, already. You’re doing way better than him, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Bull says, and then waits until she’s out of the living room and he hears her go up the stairs, the door to their room opening and closing.

He immediately pauses the game, pulls out his phone and calls Evelyn.

“I can’t believe you told her that she wouldn’t get  _sex_ ,” Bull says as soon as Evelyn picks up, “You couldn’t have just told her that it’s a you and Cullen thing? Because now I’m going to have sex with her so she can test your theory of  _Ellana wouldn’t get why Evelyn and Cullen are so weirdly relaxed now that they’re fucking because she’s asexual_.”

Evelyn sputters, “ _What_?”

“We’re going to have the sex she says,” Bull continues, “Out of  _nowhere_. I’m too old for these bombshells to be dropped on me without warning. I mean, sure, yeah, I guess we could have sex but also -  _you just had to dare her_. Really? We’ve known each other for  _years_  and you  _still_  forget that you can’t just tell Ellana these kind of things because she’ll take it as a personal challenge?”

“Did you tell her no?”

“What? No. Why would I tell her no?” Bull asks, “I don’t have a problem with having sex with my wife and life-partner. I mean, sure, we’ve  _never had sex_  before, but that isn’t the point. My point is that we’ve all known each other for almost ten years and you still though the worlds  _you wouldn’t get it_  aren’t the magic buzzer to throwing Ellana off the obsessive deep end? I am beyond disappointed in you.”


	162. Chapter 162

“My son and daughter are cryptids,” Solas says conversationally to Mythal, “And apparently both are dating law enforcement.”

“How delightful,” Mythal says, “The family gathering next year will be ever so dramatic. I need to figure out a way to get Morrigan to come, she wouldn’t want to miss her cousins causing trouble for the world.”

“I think you have it the other way around,” Solas says, because Morrigan has never had a taste for their family’s dramatics and has avoided them all like the actual  _plague_  since she was sixteen and had a driver’s license. Solas sees her about once every thirty six months.

If anything she’s the real cryptid of this family. She has a son, a stable job, and is a respected member of society and everything. It’s astounding really, considering the source material she came from.

“Tell me more of your cryptid children,” Mythal says.

“A group of teenagers got scared off by Mahanon on Friday the Thirteenth in October while trying do drugs on our property,” Solas says, “You know how Mahanon feels about all of that.”

“Groups, teenagers, Fridays, the number thirteen, the month of October, drugs, and trespassing?” Mythal asks, sipping at her mimosa, “Oh, I love this story already.”

“The entire suburb is blaming every single bad thing to happen from scratched paint to burglaries on the  _glowing eyed hissing shadow of dark fire that lives in the woods_ ,” Solas says, “I never should have let you mind him. I should have just hired a babysitter. He didn’t have this dramatic flare before.”

“Have you checked a mirror recently, brother?” Mythal muses, “Because on the scale of the dramatic in our family I would say you’re a good contender for  _most_ , right underneath Falon’din.”

Solas scowls at her. She smiles and sweetly refreshes his mimosa.

“Continue to tell me about my niece and nephew’s adventures in becoming urban legends and how this leads to them dating law enforcement. What kind of law enforcement?”

Solas closes his eyes and she can see him  _hoping_  for patience that he knows he’ll never achieve. Transcendence, maybe.

“I’m guessing not the buyable kind,” Mythal says, ripping apart a croissant with her nails. “Disappointing, but good for them. That, of course, makes things unnecessarily hard but if it’s true love it will probably work out with either Andruil or Elgar’nan in prison. Truly wonderful.”

“Mahanon is dating a forensic inspector and a mortician,” Solas says.

“Normally a person is one or the other,” Mythal says.

“He’s dating  _two_  people,” Solas says, “Both of which are in law enforcement.”

Mythal clicks her tongue, “Variety, boy. He’s just like you in how he sticks to the one thing he knows he likes. Dreadful.”

“One of them is from Tevinter. His father is a Magister.”

Mythal drops the croissant and gives Solas her full attention. Solas looks like someone’s forced an entire lemon into his mouth and is making him swallow it whole. He looks like that someone is, possibly, Sylaise.

“The forensic inspector is a Qunari Tal-vashoth who’s parents left due to political oppression,” Solas says, “He’s also six years Mahanon’s junior.”

“There have been bigger age gaps in this world.”

Solas’ eyes slowly meet hers and he says, “Ellana is engaged to a man who is  _ten_  years her senior. He’s a former Qunari spy and he currently works as a police chief.”

Mythal laughs because really, “This is karma, Solas. This is karma at it’s most pure and finest.”

“I don’t see why I have to suffer for  _all of us_ ,” Solas says, sounding incredibly glum, “Why can’t any of anyone else’s children suffer? Why does it have to be  _my_  children?”

“Tell me about how Ellana became a cryptid.”

“Mahanon’s pet snake got loose.”

Pet snake is a very, very mild term for  _one of Mahanon’s rescue animals from an illegal exotic weapons smuggling ring_. It’s an incredibly understated way of saying  _Mahanon’s extremely dangerous wild animal that should really be set loose in its natural habitat which is not an urban city or the suburbs_.

This is, however, slightly better than Ellana who doesn’t have pets but a  _following_  of actual wild animals who  _do_  belong in an urban city or the suburbs around it due to displacement.

Mythal’s seen Ellana’s following before and it’s enough that even Ghilan’ain has grudgingly conceded that Ellana is  _good enough for the daughter of the rat-bastard Solas_.

“She went to go find it,” Solas says, “In the middle of the night.”

“Why are your children prowling the suburbs in the middle of the night?”

“I should never have let Sylaise or Jun know about the fact that I have children.”

“Fair, continue.”

“I do not know how she got onto its trail. I do not know how she followed in in the middle of the night through the woods and onto the street and into the sewers,” Solas says, “I do not know how she got  _into_  the sewers. What I do know is that somewhere between our house and the street half a mile from our drive, her -  _following_  or at least  _parts of her following_  - “

Because it is a truly large group of animals that Ellana has somehow convinced that she’s part of and if her true following ever did congregate at once Mythal is certain the entire woods would be burned by humans as the only way to remove the supposed evil and witchcraft within.

“Had come with her to help find her brother’s snake,” Solas says. “She is covered in dirt and sewer filth and grass and whatever detritus she acquired between point a and point b. She is being followed by -  _whatever_  - and she is holding an extremely exotic looking snake that she’s making eye contact with and talking to in hissing. She is also standing in the middle of a cul-de-sac. Her eyes, along with the eyes of many of the animals with her, are reflective.”

Solas delivers the final line with all the emotion of someone who simply wants to lay down and end everything, “And you know how good she is at disappearing.”

Mythal can just picture it. Dozens of pairs of eyes staring into a single light, reflecting eerily in the night, and then blinking out of existence. One minute there, the next vanished and only footprints remaining. If Ellana was so generous as to leave footprints.

“Your children never cease to delight me,” Mythal says, “Can you imagine if this was back in the day when people thought magic was real? They’d be burned for consorting with demons. There’s a thought. Maybe your children  _are_  demons. Or magic.”


	163. Chapter 163

"We're closed,” Mahanon says as soon as Dorian opens the door.

“Really? You said you’d do my nails today,” Malika says from directly behind Dorian, “It’s the only day we can do them, remember? I’m supposed to be shadowing Maxwell at the front desks today.”

Mahanon nods, “For you, we’re open. For him, no.”

“I am betrayed on multiple levels, but for once I’m not here for you, I’m here for Ellana,” Dorian says. “We have an appointment for a cut and style - as if I needed style, I am the living embodiment of  _style -_ and she wanted to get me in before the store opens to the general public for the day.”

“As if the store is ever open to the general public,” Malika laughs as Mahanon gestures for her to take a seat in front of him as he pulls out little bottles of nail polish and other nail equipment. Malika never realized there was so much. There’s little clippers and bigger clippers and three types of files and a bunch of other things. “Mahanon, you know I just wanted something simple, right?”

“Simplicity is the highest form of perfection,” Mahanon replies, “And cannot be rushed.”

“That sounds counter-intuitive,” Dorian muses and then shakes his head, “I can’t believe Vivienne trusted the two of you and your people skills enough to give you  _jobs_  at her  _resort_.”

“I can’t believe she trusted you to be in charge of PR,” Malika replies, “I thought the two of you hated each other.”

“Not as much as they hate other people,” Mahanon replies, “Hands.”

Malika obediently gives him her hands.

“Where is your sister?” Dorian repeats, pulling up Ellana’s white chair from her desk to watch Mahanon work his magic on Malika’s nails.

Mahanon and Ellana are the only beauticians employed at the High Tower resort, but they’re popular and mots guests have to book weeks in advance. They block out a window of eight to ten and five to seven for walk ins, but otherwise they’re  _booked solid_.

Dorian often tries to convince Vivienne that they need to get some assistants for the two, at least. It seems like too much to ask them to do hair and nails and make up and also be expected to do supply runs and cleaning and maintenance of their studio in between. Especially considering that they’re also required to be on call for high profile guests and coordinate with the concierges and main desk for last minute appointments and stylings for guests and staff.

“You underestimate the Lavellans,” Vivienne always says, “One will rise to the challenge out of spite and the other wouldn’t even recognize a challenge if it spat in her face.”

Dorian is of the mind that Vivienne is seriously overestimating Mahanon’s patience for people in general.

“She’s most likely with Bull in the spa area,” Mahanon says as he gets to work on Malika’s nails, “Malika, have they given you your new uniform, yet?”

“I’m picking it up after this. I didn’t want it to get all creased and wrinkled sitting here,” Malika replies as Mahanon nods.

“How do the two of them ever get any work done if they’re always with each other?” Dorian asks.

“How do I get any work done when you’re always hovering over my shoulder?” Mahanon replies, “And Kaaras is always on the verge of screaming in sheer panic at the amount of things piling up for him to do. Have they replaced his sous chef yet?”

“Nope,” Dorian says, toying with some of the bottles just because he knows it’ll annoy Mahanon in the nice way. If he wanted to seriously piss his boyfriend off he’d start in on the actual equipment.

“I forgot how nice this feels,” Malika says, happily kicking her feet underneath the table and her chair as Mahanon works her hands. “Is this why Max is always here?”

“He’s always here because he’s trying to shirk his work at front desk,” Dorian says, “I hear about it all the time from Leliana whenever she goes over our security footage.”

Mahanon’s lips curve upwards for the briefest moment before leveling out again. “She’s here. Get in the chair.”

Dorian doesn’t question it, just gets up, gives Malika a quick kiss on the top of her head, and goes to sit in Ellana’s chair in front of the mirrors and bright lights.

Dorian’s back has barely hit the chair when the glass doors of the salon open and Ellana breezes in with an entire  _platter_  of food.

“I thought no food is allowed in here,” Malika says.

“I can’t wait for you to go through your rotation in the salon,” Dorian says, “It’s a mystical experience.”

“No food that we don’t bring in or ask for,” Mahanon says.

“Whatever food we feel like,” Ellana says, putting it down on her desk, “Mahanon, Kaaras gave us extra. I think we might have a busy day ahead of us. We might not eat later so I think we’re meant to eat now. Do you think he knows something we don’t? He always has such spot on premonitions for these things. I think he’s learning too much from Bull, frankly. Bull should be teaching  _me_  how to be eerily accurate on judging the flow of customers per day. I mean, he likes me best!”

Mahanon wrinkles his nose, “Busy.”

Ellana plunks a tall ceramic travel mug in front of him, the lid is removed and there’s a straw in it. She orients the straw towards Mahanon’s mouth.

“Strawberry mango,” She says. Mahanon turns his head a little and catches the straw in his mouth and starts sucking with a comical irritation.

“And for Malika,” Ellana says, heading back to the tray.

“You don’t have to.”

“Sure I do. It’s for you. Kaaras made it for your first day at front desk!” Ellana says, presenting Malika with a hearty looking breakfast wrap and another ceramic travel mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream.

“She can’t eat that, I’m working on her now,” Mahanon says.

“You aren’t going to be doing both hands at once,” Ellana says, taking a small bowl of yogurt and fruits off the tray and putting them on her desk.

“Dorian, for you, your usual bagel,” Ellana says, “And coffee that could make someone die after not sleeping for three days.”

“You exaggerate, it would only be  _two_  days,” Dorian says, accepting both from Ellana.

“Alright, while you eat, let’s consider your hair,” Ellana says, “Mahanon - I’m putting away our lunch and snacks. Dorian, how do you feel about extensions?”


	164. Chapter 164

“One of us,” Maxwell says, leaning heavily against Kaaras and waving a hand in the air, his other hand is loosely held around Ellana’s silver flask, “Has to be normal, here, Kaaras. One of us has to not be into older partners.  _All three of us_  can’t be having one-sided crushes on people we shouldn’t be having crushes on because they’re probably old enough to be our parents.”

Alcohol is banned at the Yule ball for everyone, especially the Champions of the Schools.

Ellana is a Slytherin.

And Ellana knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. And every single one of those guys knows deep in their gut that they would, infinitely, rather  _die_  in Ellana’s pockets than live in the constant fear and terror of knowing that they’ve done her wrong and that she’s ready to let loose one of a thousand of their little secrets at any moment to just the right person.

Ellana has an enchanted flask that never runs dry.

As soon as the formal announcements were over, and the formal dance with the three Champions and their partners was done -

There had been  _some_  consternation over the the fact that the champions for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had chosen to go with each other rather than find other dates, but it was quickly ignored in the favor of expediency and the multiple flashing cameras and enchanted quills in the area.

Ellana, Maxwell, and Kaaras had immediately slipped out of the festivities and found a secluded place to sit and drink and be merry without the eyes of the entire wizarding world on them.

(Ellana had cast  _lumos_  while Kaaras and Maxwell enchanted a small bubble of shielding around them to muffle their voices, turn away gazes, filter out the worst of the snow and the cold -

“Leave some of it!” Ellana had said as she made herself comfortable over Kaara’s crossed legs, “It’s Saturnalia, Maxwell. We should have at least a  _little_  snow.”

“And a  _little_  pneumonia,” Maxwell replied, but had altered his spellwork on the overhead shielding to allow a few bits of snow to come through every now and again.

“Nothing some Pepper Up can’t fix,” Kaaras said, awkwardly pulling off the topmost layer of his robes and wrapping them around Ellana as she made herself comfortable between his legs, her cheek resting on his knee.

“I have something  _better_  than Pepper Up,” Ellana declared, bringing out the silver flask and shaking it as the two boys burst out into excited laughter.

“You  _Slytherin scoundrel!_ ” Maxwell cried, tugging Ellana’s face up to kiss both her cheeks, “Make an honest man out of me, why don’t you?”

Kaaras playfully shoved Maxwell away and took the flask, “I’m last in our points, I need this more. Besides, I’m  _her_  living chair, of course she meant it for me first.”)

“Pavus isn’t that much older than us,” Kaaras says, a lovely flush blooming over his cheeks that is only partially due to the Firewhiskey. “He’s only two years my senior.”

“Scandalous,” Maxwell intones, winking at Ellana and handing her the flask.

She takes a quick sip, breathing out a cloud of steam before passing it to Kaaras.

“He’s a baby, we must protect him from the evils of older wizards preying on the young and beautiful and naive,” Ellana agrees. “He’s a  _politician_ , Kaaras.”

“His  _father_  is a politician, he’s an activist,” Kaaras replies.

“Even worse! He’s got noble ideals!” Maxwell bemoans, “Ellana, I’m staring to think you and I are the more rational ones here. At least our ill-fated crushes are on unobtainable people beyond us. Kaaras could go and join a rebellion and meet  _his_  within the year.”

“They say you should never meet your heroes,” Ellana agrees.

“Is that why the two of you have been doing your best to avoid meeting with the aurors?” Kaaras asks pleasantly as the two of them make studies of examining the snow in front of them. “I don’t think Auror Pentaghast and Auror Bull are  _together_. I think they just came together like how Maxwell and I came here together.”

“I’m so hurt, Kaaras, I thought we had something special. I let you dip me and  _everything_. Now the entire world will know I’m a loose man who’s easily won over by a strapping man with muscles and - and more muscles,” Maxwell huffs.

“The Firewhiskey is finally getting to you, you’ve lost your ability to do words,” Ellana says, rubbing her cheek against Kaaras’ thigh. “But they look like such a charming couple, Kaaras.”

“I thought you weren’t interested,” Kaaras muses, playing with some of Ellana’s hair.

“I’m  _not_ ,” Ellana whines petulantly. “I’m making an  _observation_.”

“And I’m observing that he’s  _very_  handsome,” Maxwell sighs, forlornly, “And that if they’re together there’s no way I can even compete with that. He’s muscle on muscle on muscle on muscle. Ellana, I reckon that we could have you sit up and put you inside his chest cavity with room for a reading light, a kettle for tea, and a few books. Honestly? I wouldn’t even want to compete with that. Thats it. He’s just - there. The epitome of the perfect life partner. And really, doesn’t Auror Pentaghast deserve the best?”

Ellana  _and_ Kaaras sigh dreamily.

Maxwell and Ellana round on Kaaras - “No!”

“I can  _observe_  that you’re right,” Kaaras says, looking between the two as Maxwell and Ellana hold hands, feigning shock and betrayal in a way that makes him roll his eyes, “Observing something doesn’t mean anything! It’s acting on your observations!”

It looks like Ellana and Maxwell are about to either argue or tease or both when Maxwell startles.

“Wait! Hold on! I just realized something,” He says, “It’s almost midnight! On Saturnalia. At the Saturnalia ball that’s basically being thrown in  _our honor_.”

“And?” Ellana prompts after he stops there, looking at her and Kaaras expectantly.

“And we have to kiss!” Maxwell says, “It’s just too sad if we’re sitting alone in the snow on Saturnalia. It’s a tradition. You kiss on Saturnalia.”

“Isn’t that new year?”

“Are you saying you don’t want to kiss me, Kaaras?”

“Well, now that you mention it…“

“I’ll kiss Ellana’s cheek, Ellana you kiss Kaaras’, Kaaras you kiss mine. It’s a circle of not being alone on Saturnalia on midnight,” Maxwell decides before Kaaras can go on further. Kaaras laughs.

“And pining after unreachable crushes? Agreed. I’m in,” Ellana muses, slowly sitting up in Kaaras’ lap, she wiggles an arm free and pokes at Maxwell’s shoulder. “I also think you’re just jealous because there’s no room for you in my nest.”

“You mean Kaaras’ lap? Kaaras, good man, can you even feel your legs anymore?”

“Feeling in my legs comes second to Ellana’s comfort,” Kaaras recites dutifully and Ellana preens. “Why can’t  _I_  kiss Ellana’s cheek?”

“It doesn’t matter which way the circle goes as long as it goes,” Maxwell replies, taking a sip of fire whiskey before handing the flask back to Ellana. She spirits it away into her robes.

“Alright, lets practice, because it’s clear that none of us is going to be kissing anybody else, we might as well get used to this platonic life-trio relationship while we’re young,” Ellana says. “I do hope that you realize that Slytherins bond for  _life_  and just because we live scattered across Thedas doesn’t mean I don’t expect regular letters, parcels, floos, and visits.”

“I think you’re most interested in the parcels,” Kaaras says.

“Why are we practicing?” Maxwell asks.

“Because you’re so drunk you probably can’t even tell my face from the fur lining of my cloak,” Ellana replies, “I don’t want your mouth on my cloak. It’d make a  _stain_. Do you know how hard it is to wash?”


	165. Chapter 165

“It's bad," Maxwell says as soon as he’s inside the Room of Requirement.

“How bad is bad?” Ellana asks, staring at the enchanted map Sera had let her borrow to make sure no one else is coming towards them.

The Room of Requirement should keep them safe, and she’s never been more grateful for its existence and for the fact that she and her brother accidentally found it two years ago.

“My parents sent me a howler,” Kaaras says, lying face down on an incredibly outdated sofa covered in truly horrendous paisley. It might have once belonged in a Ravenclaw common room based on the abundance of blue.

“Head Mistress Vivienne gave me a very stern talking to,” Maxwell says, throwing himself down onto the fainting couch next to Kaaras. He’s thrown an arm over his face, “She thinks I’ll throw the games for you. How did we not catch someone spying on us?”

“Someone must have planted something prior,” Ellana says. Mahanon had also sent her a howler, but he wasn’t really scolding her so much as he was going through the motions of pretending to care. Most of the howler was basically him telling her that he’s expecting at least Exceeds Expectations on all of her end of term exams, regardless of whether she’s participating in the child-killing games and involved with two boys at once. “Or maybe it was someone playing foul and using magic that wasn’t supposed to be used.”

Maxwell and Kaaras both groan like little babies.

“Headmistress Wynne also gave me a talking to, you know,” Ellana says, drawing their attention. “But mostly she was concerned that maybe I was in over my head with  _two_  boyfriends at once when I’ve never even had  _one_  before. She gave me some very good advice. I told her, of course, that it isn’t like that and she believes me but I think the advice is very valuable regardless. She’s a very nice woman, you know. She’s like - absolutely terrifying if you’re on the other end of one of her wand, but a very nice woman. She’s a former Hufflepuff, you know. She likes to set badgers loose on people who annoy her. She’s got two in the headmasters office. Taxidermied ones that’ve been enchanted to move at her command. One is named Sprinkles and the other is named Toffee.”

“And you know this because?”

“Because we have tea,” Ellana says, “Usually once a month. When I get caught. Or someone  _thinks_  that they’ve caught me. Or when someone tries to frame me for something. Lately we’ve been talking about what I should do after I graduate. My brother went into creature rescue and conservation but I’m not sure if I’m up to it, honestly. I think I want to be a curse breaker.”

“You’d make a very good one,” Kaaras offers, lifting his head a little to look at her, “My sister is a curse breaker, do you want me to get you an apprenticeship?”

Maxwell pulls a shrunken newspaper out of the pocket of his robes, tapping his wand against it to return it to its normal size.

“Can we focus to the matter at hand of how someone managed to get a picture of us drunk on the Saturnalia ball and kissing each other like sleepy kittens?” Maxwell says, waving the paper about.

“That should resolve itself, right?” Kaaras asks the room in general, rolling over onto his back so they can hear him clearly. “I mean. We were drunk. We shouldn’t have been, but we were. Who doesn’t sneak alcohol in? And drunk people sometimes get handsy. And also we’re teenagers. This shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Intraschool fraternization between the school champions is probably prohibited somewhere,” Maxwell says, glumly tossing the newspaper onto the floor between the three of them. “My cousin was giving me the most disappointed look.”

“That’s unfair of her, we got her a date with Rutherford,” Ellana says.

“Oh, no, it’s not that. She was disappointed I didn’t tell her that I was in a three way,” Maxwell replies. “Also she’s very concerned for our emotional stability and if this is a good thing for us. I think she thinks that we’re together because we’re terrified of dying in these games and it’s forced us to bond in an unusual manner. I mean, she isn’t wrong, but we veered a touch more towards  _if we don’t die and also don’t find people to spend the rest of our lives with we’ll all share a house equidistant from all of our origin points and get twenty cats_.”

“I thought we agreed on birds?” Kaaras says.

“I thought we agreed to split the difference with a griffon,” Ellana says and then freezes when she glances down at the map. “Guys.”

“What?”

“Someone is coming to the Room of Requirements,” Ellana says, sitting up and brandishing the map at the other two.

They both scramble to her to read the name.

“Are those the aurors?” Maxwell says, swallowing loudly, “Maker’s ass and tits, they’ve sent the  _scouts_  to give us a talking to. This is absolutely bloody ridiculous. It’s as if no one’s ever known teenagers to do a bit of necking about the holidays when alcohol is present.”

Kaaras makes a sound like he’s  _dying_.

Ellana’s skin feels cold and hot at the same time.

“But Pentaghast and the Iron Bull aren’t Hogwarts alumni, they wouldn’t know how to get here,” Kaaras says, voice cracking and sounding incredibly high pitched.

“Yes, but they aren’t the only auror scouts the Ministry sent,” Maxwell says, “Remember? I saw Hawke in the stands for the second trial. And all four of the Hawke siblings graduated from Hogwarts. If there’s  _anyone_  who would’ve found the Room of Requirements it would be the Hawke siblings.”

“Right you are, Trevelyan.”

The three of them jump, wands out and ready as Ellana quickly stuffs the map into her pocket.

Garrett Hawke is standing right where the door would be if it hadn’t melted closed already, and behind him stand Cassandra Pentaghast and the Iron Bull.

Hawke looks delighted to have found them. Pentaghast looks incredibly cross. The Iron Bull looks indifferent.

Ellana has never felt more alive in her life.

“Hi,” Ellana says. Garrett and Marian Hawke were both Gryffindors, but two of their best friends were Slytherin so she’s pretty sure Hawke’s delight is  _not_  about tormenting an underclassmen from a rival house.

Ellana looks at her boys who look frozen to the spot, and then she looks at the aurors.

And then, because she wasn’t kidding about Slytherins bonding for life, she marches straight up to Hawke, thrusts her hand out and says, “Well. Hello, Hawke. Heard so much about you. You know, if you were watching this entire time you could’ve given me some hints. Those two’ve been getting cheats from  _everyone_  and it’s just me all by my lonesome. Also, you should learn to knock first. For all you know we could’ve been - “

Ellana turns and  _accio’s_  the newspaper and scans it -

“Engaging in truly immoral debauchery reflecting poorly upon the disciplines of our schools and our own moral character,” Ellana reads outloud.

Hawke’s hand is warm and dry when it takes hers, shaking firmly, “You are entirely right about the first part in that I should have definitely helped you to cheat. Second, I highly doubt I’d have walked in on the second part because anyone with eyes could see that the newspaper totally missed the mark on  _friendship and school unity_  which is basically the point of the games.”

Hawke beams, “I like you. Has anyone scouted you yet?”

“Move,” Pentaghast says, stalking past Hawke and straight at Maxwell who looks like either the divine light of transcendence or the rapture is upon him.

Ellana flashes him a thumbs up and he squeaks as Cassandra takes his shoulder and starts moving him away for a word.

The Iron Bull sighs, shrugs, and gestures for Kaaras to follow him to another part of the room.

“That ass, right?” Hawke says once the Iron Bull is safely out of earshot and can’t hear Ellana humming in agreement.

“I was thinking that back, but I guess he’s got a nice butt, too,” Ellana says, “Looks good for sitting down and wearing pants. I don’t know what having a nice butt entails. Who sent you to lecture me?”

“Does it matter as long as I don’t?”

“Of course it matters,” Ellana says, affronted, “I have to make sure it gets back to them that  _I know_.”

Hawke laughs, roughly pulling her in and ruffling her hair, “So Slytherin! I love it! Come on, kid. Let’s talk about how to deal with the press and figure out some strategies for the final trial. If I help you enough will it give me enough points that you’d consider coming onto my team as an apprentice instead of the Iron Bull’s? I don’t have an ass like that, but I am definitely some sort of ass. Failing that, there’s Carver.”


	166. Chapter 166

Maxwell apparates directly onto their welcome mat - Kaaras is extremely touchy about apparating about the house. It’s for emergencies only, he says. Otherwise you go through the door like a civilized person.

Technically, this is an emergency, but Maxwell would rather deal with death on one front than on  _two_.

“Kaaras, save me!” Maxwell yells into their kitchen as he throws open their back door.

Kaaras looks up at him, startled out of whatever tome he’s studying now for his part-time teaching position at the College.

Maxwell still can’t believe Kaaras’ idea for living his life after leaving school was  _to go back to school_  as - not even a student - a teacher. Maxwell could barely stand being a teenager himself, he’s astounded Kaaras would want to be an authority figure to them.

“What?” Kaaras blinks owlishly at him, “What time is it? Why are you home? The sun is still up. Was I supposed to have dinner on already?”

Kaaras blanches, “Did I forget time again?”

“Andraste preserve us all, Kaaras, this is no time for you to be having an existential!” Maxwell says, skidding into the house with a loud yelp when he hears the  _pop!_  of another person apparating behind him. “Save me! You love me, don’t you? We swore an oath!”

Kaaras turns bewildered eyes at Maxwell before turning to Ellana who for someone who is of a very diminutive stature sure can fill a space ominously.

“You cheat! You liar! You  _scoundrel!_ ” Ellana shrieks, finger pointed out - thank the Maker it isn’t her wand - at Maxwell. “I can’t believe you! I had to hear it from  _Carver Hawke!_  Of all the people!”

“Hear what?” Kaaras asks, looking between the two, “Why are  _you_  home so early? What’s happening?”

“You haven’t lost time hunched over your books,” Maxwell says to Kaaras before the man can truly panic. “Ellana is over reacting in that dramatic Slytherin way of hers.”

Now Ellana pulls out her wand and Maxwell dives under the table, clinging to Kaaras’ legs.

Kaaras’ rabbit looks up at him and then hops away to the living room to avoid them.

“He’s an  _auror!_ ” Ellana says and Maxwell grimaces.

“Yes?” Kaaras says, “We know this? Maxwell was the first one out of all of us to get a real adult person job? He took us out on his first paycheck? He owns one third of this house? Ellana, did you get hit in the head? Are you alright? Do you need a tonic?”

Ellana hisses and Maxwell buries his face into Kaaras’ thigh and whimpers.

“He’s an auror on  _the Iron Bull’s team_ ,” Ellana says, “Maxwell, you’ve been in close proximity to the Iron Bull who we all know I’ve had a huge crush on since we were competing in the child-murder games when we were  _in our teenage years_  and you didn’t tell me!”

“In my defense,” Maxwell says as Kaaras tries to pry him off, “I thought it was something that passed?”

“Does this  _look_  like something that’s passed to you?” Kaaras says, succeeding in getting Maxwell off of him and pulling him out from underneath the table to face Ellana’s wrath. “Wait - why were you talking to Carver Hawke?”

“Because Garrett and Mariam Hawke still want me on  _their_ auror team and I guess I have to say yes now,” Ellana says, kicking out a chair from the table to throw herself into it as dramatic as she ever is. She levels a sullen pout at Maxwell.

“You’re becoming an auror out of spite?” Maxwell asks.

“My grades in DADA were always better than yours anyway,” Ellana huffs.

“What happened to being an unmentionable?” Kaaras asks. “Or an investigator?”

“I don’t want to anymore,” Ellana declares. Out of the three of them she’s had the hardest time finding employment after graduation and it’s hit her somewhat hard.

Every few months the magazines and the newspapers will do a little bit on  _the Magic Darlings!_  and all the previous big names form the tournaments and other miscellaneous competitions that take place in the magical world and the three of them inevitably come up. Especially due to the scandal of their deep and healthy friendship and the ensuing gossip about threesomes.

It hasn’t gotten any better now that the three of them own a house in the country together.

It’s not so bad for Kaaras - rising star of a scholar and fresh faced Professor at one of the most esteemed post-graduate wizarding schools - or Maxwell - pure blood and auror - but for Ellana, champion of their tournament, they are especially hard.

Most of Ellana’s work is with her brother at his rescue but otherwise she’s floated between jobs. It’s not that she’s a bad employee, rather most jobs fail to hold her interest.

“That’s a tad backwards,” Kaaras says.

“No, now I have to compete against Maxwell’s team to avenge myself,” Ellana says and then holds out her arm.

Ellana’s raven immediately flies to her out of  _nowhere_  in the room. She snags Kaaras’ pen and jots a quick note down on some scrap paper, folding the paper in one hand to gently fasten around her raven’s leg.

And then the raven is flying out their kitchen window.

“And that’s how I get a job,” Ellana says, slouching in her chair. “Maxwell, I’m so hurt. I never hold back anything from you about Cassandra Pentaghast.”

“You don’t know anything about Cassandra Pentaghast,” Maxwell says, “I mean, not anymore than anyone else does.”

“Well if I did I would have told you. Now if I ever do find something out I won’t,” Ellana declares. “I’ll tell Kaaras weeks after the fact the we’re alone and then leave it up to his discretion to tell you. You’re going to forget this entire conversation and when it finally plays out you’ll look at me accusitoraly and I’ll laugh and remind you of this exact moment in time.”

Ellana quickly looks at her watch.

“That time being two forty p.m., Thursday,” Ellana says.

“So petty,” Maxwell says, but feels a cold dread settle in his chest uncomfortably. Because she will do it and it will play out exactly like so.

“You really ought to pursue being an Unmentionable,” Kaaras says, shaking his head, “It’s a waste of dramatic flair otherwise.”

Ellana huffs, “There is no more noble pursuit in life than using your talents to put yourself above those who have wronged you.”

“You terrify me and I love you so much,” Maxwell says, “I bet the Hawkes beg you to go within a month because you drive them so crazy.”

“Rude,” Ellana says. “Do you think they’d let me switch to Bull’s team?”


	167. Chapter 167

“There's a raven perched on top of the main stair bannister,” Krem says when he finally manages to find Lavellan through Skyhold’s many twisting corridors. Finding her to report this not so strange anomaly was not his goal. That’s more of a thing to do on the side. Mostly Krem is just looking for where his room his.

There are parts about Skyhold - living  _castle_ , living castle  _grounds_ , apparently living  _mountain_  - Krem deeply enjoys. The changing scenery that promises something new and exciting about working in one place for extended periods of time without the drudgery and boredom associated with long jobs like these, the suspicious but not unwelcome supply of fresh fruit and vegetables, an always changing catalogue of things to read, and watching Dorian Pavus grow increasingly frustrated with the apparent disregard being shown towards science and understandable phenomena occurring.

The latter is especially fruitful.

However Krem does not joy getting perpetually lost for hours out of his day because Skyhold is - at best,  _playful_  with how people get places, at worst downright  _sadistic_  and  _cruel_  about what it shows along the way to getting someone to their goal.

“Did the roof open up again?” Lavellan asks, because Krem’s walked into foyer of Syhold next to aforementioned stairs several times and seen strange trees growing where no trees were growing before, stretching up into the sky where there was no sky before. “If we wanted more outdoors we’d go outdoors, I keep  _saying_.”

“Keep saying it, because Skyhold isn’t listening,” Krem says. “No, the roof was fine, I didn’t see any vegetation or anything different. There was just a raven sitting there.”

“And?”

“And nothing, I just thought you should know,” Krem says, “Because these things usually are some sort of sign that you need to know about.”

Lavellan nods, “Let’s go see the raven, then.”

“I was actually hoping to go to my room,” Krem says.

Lavellan tilts her head, “Hoping?”

“Skyhold’s had me going around in not-circles for about twenty minutes,” Krem says. “I don’t think Skyhold was having me look for you, otherwise I’d have found you right away.”

“Fair enough, find anything interesting?” Lavellan asks as she starts walking towards where Krem came from. Krem turns around to follow her and is completely unsurprised to find that as soon as they turn the corner they’re standing in front of the main stairs.

The raven stares at them and then proclaims, “ _The dead will claim what is theirs; the serpent swallows its own tail; the serpent is a dragon_.”

Krem watches Lavellan’s face.

She looks annoyed, “That’s poetic.”

She looks at him, “That’s poetic, right?”

“Pretty sounding, yeah,” Krem says, “What’s it mean? Should I warn the Chief?”

“It’s a raven of ill omens,” Lavellan says, “I somehow find it surprising it hasn’t shown up sooner.”

“A what?”

Krem turns to look at there’s a second raven. “Is this an attempted murder?”

Lavellan laughs and nudges his arm with hers, “Cute.”

Krem grins at her as the second raven looks straight at the first one and croaks out, “ _the messenger is always sacrificed; the blood of ravens runs smooth and clean; the stones will have their toast; raise a glass to survival_.”

“Oh, this is going to get crowded,” Lavellan murmurs just as a third raven alight onto the bannister next to the second one and says, “ _one should not blame the mouth of the message; the root of the poison lies beyond the tongue; seek the source.”_

“Are they just declaring ill intent at each other?” Krem asks and Lavellan rolls her eyes and gestures for him to follow her.

“Well, I didn’t like the first one, so I’m assuming that’s what called the second, and I guess the  _first_  one didn’t much like what the second one was saying so that brings along the third, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to ask Skyhold for a cat.”

-

“You found the larder,” Solas says as Lavellan glares at the large stone cellar walls. There are  _entire aisles_  full of food.

Jars without a single speck of dust full of jams and jellies and preserves of all sorts. Barrels upon barrels. Somehow there’s entire bushels of apples and pears and pomegranates and baskets of eggs and huge rounds of cheese and cloth-wrapped loaves of bread. There are herbs and vegetables hanging from the ceiling and cuts of meat and -

The sheer amount of food and ingredients is staggering.

“I can’t believe,” Lavellan says through her teeth as she pushes down on her irritation and the throbbing pain in her hand and her temples, “You actually had me buy  _groceries_  when you had all this. Do you even know what  _food wastage_  is?”

Solas - the ghost of him, her imagined figment, whatever - is silent before he says, so softly, so painfully, “I haven’t seen the larder open for anyone in centuries.”

Lavellan bites her tongue and reminds herself of the poison on it. His and hers. She shouldn’t be feeling sorry for him.

“This was  _her_  space,” Solas says and something inside of her makes her turn her head to the side and she sees a huge fire place an hearth, ready and waiting with stacks upon stacks of firewood. “Her domain. When she - when she was  _displaced_  it disappeared with her. I didn’t think it would ever return.”

Lavellan wonders how many more parts of Skyhold vanished. She wonders if that’s part of why Skyhold seems to crumble in on itself, the lack of its own internal organs.

Is that what happened to Solas?

Lavellan goes and runs her hand over solid wood tables and shelves. No dust. No sign of time’s passage.

The apples are red and perfect. No bruises. No sign of mold or damage. Same for the lettuce and the carrots - the potatoes don’t even have shoots. The peaches smell fresh and are firm underneath her touch.

She breaks a loaf of bread and it smells like it just came out of an oven.

“How much is there?” Lavellan asks, intent on bringing as much of this up to the kitchen as she can. Who knows when she’ll find the stores again?

“I don’t know,” Solas says, sounding far away and watery, like he’s a child’s chalk drawing washing away underneath a patient and indifferent hose, “It was never my place to know. Everything, possibly. Anything.”

Lavellan picks up an apple and bites into it, the juice is tart and runs down her chin as she examines the room, mind turning as she tries to figure out what to prioritize first.

 _Everything_ , Skyhold seems to whisper back to her.  _For you, anything_.

Except a door, Lavellan thinks. Everything except a way away.


	168. Chapter 168

“What's wrong with your mother?” Bull asks as Mahanon rummages through the refrigerator and comes out with an armful of jello and pudding cups, a tub of whipped cream, strawberries, and preportioned snack cakes that Dalish, Krem, Grim, and Ellana had made on Sunday. “You only get  _one_  of those.”

“Even if they’re for everyone to  _share_?” Mahanon challenges.

“Even then,” Bull says.

“Does whipped cream count as  _half_ of one if I combine it with something else?”

“No,” Bull says, “Pick  _one_.”

Mahanon huffs and turns around to put things back into the refrigerator. Bull waits until he’s turned around and presented a bright orange jello cup to him before nodding and beckoning Mahanon over to him at the table where he’s been going through receipts and bills.

Normally Ellana helps him with it - she’s got a terrifying knack for mental math that delights Rocky to no end - but she’s sullen and sulking about the back yard talking at the roses as if the roses are going to give her moral support. After how many times she’s hacked at them in the past two months in order to make room for the other vegetation he doubts it.

“What’s wrong with your mother?” Bull repeats as Mahanon opens the jello cup and starts to drink it like the weird kid he is.

He doesn’t use a spoon, he just crunches the plastic and shoots the jello straight into his mouth and runs it through his teeth until its liquid. Bull hasn’t seen Ellana eat jello so he’s not sure if she’s the one he learned that particularly disturbing eating method from. It might be Solas. Again, Bull’s never seen Solas eat jello, so he can’t say for sure. But Solas seems like the kind of guy who’d be this kind of weird.

Mahanon’s cheek bulges as he shoves the aqueous mass into it and says carefully, to avoid spilling jello down his front, “She got dismissed from jury duty. Upsets her every time.”

“She  _wants_  to sit in?” Bull asks, eyebrows raising.

Mahanon swishes his jello around his mouth before storing it on the other side of his mouth, nodding, “She wants the experience. Says she’s missing out on seeing life on the other side.”

“No one in their right mind is going to pick a lawyer as one of the jurors,” Bull says, “Especially  not a semi-prominent lawyer.”

Mahanon shrugs and swallows his jello after a few more swishes. Bull doesn’t even know how this counts as a snack as Mahanon basically took the cup like a shot and swished it around his mouth a few times to enjoy the flavor.

“Have you ever served?” Mahanon asks as he turns around to dispose of the empty cup.

“Nope,” Bull says, “I’m the wrong race, the wrong persuasion, the wrong nationality, and also just the wrong kind of guy in general.”

He’s a Qunari man who’s a former government spy from Par Vollen and a single parent of multiple foster-adopted children. No court would ever want him to sit for any kind of trial.

Mahanon shrugs, “Shame. You could have just told her about your experiences and then maybe she’d be satisfied. No one in our family has ever gotten picked for jury duty.”

“Maybe you’ll be the first.”

Mahanon blinks and then smiles, “I would  _love to be_.”

Bull shakes his head as the boy goes back towards the living room where the rest are doing their homework, pretending to do their homework, or are gloating over the fact that they’re done with their homework.

Ellana comes in about thirty minutes later just as Bull is putting stuff away to start dinner. He’s not done yet, he’d like it if Ellana would take a quick look at his numbers to make sure he didn’t forget anything. He’s fairly certain he hasn’t, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.

“I’m guessing the roses were very unsupportive,” Bull says as he finishes arranging documents into the thick file folder he keeps for unpaid bills.

Ellana turns sad eyes onto him, “I just want to be part of the system. I want to feel how it is on the other side.”

“Technically the other side would be if you were in court as a defendant or appellant instead of their lawyer,” Bull says. Ellana just continues to look sad at him. “Did you even make it to the court house?”

“I did but as soon as the lawyers saw me they dismissed me. They didn’t even ask me any real questions,” Ellana says. “I wish I didn’t work at such a good firm.”

“You mean you wish you weren’t good at your job?”

Ellana goes and starts pulling out ingredients for hamburgers without another word.

Bull rolls his eye at her back and goes to check on the kids.

“Any progress?” Bull asks and all of them look up at him and Krem says very calmly and confidently -

“No.”

“Can I know why?”

“Because we’re designing a trial for mom to be a juror on. We’ve come to the conclusion that we’ll need more people to create a full courtroom experience,” Dalish replies.

“We’ll also need space to hold this mock trial,” Rocky says.

Bull is both touched by this gesture and a little chagrined.

“You’re doing this to avoid your homework,” Bull says as he leans over the back of the couch to look at what looks like several pieces of paper worth of doodles and diagrams and charts. Impressive work for about an hour.

“What does homework have to do with our lives anyway?” Rocky asks. “This trial, in comparison? The happiness of our mom.”

“Cheers,” Stitches says and everyone trades high fives.

“Cute,” Bull says, “What about the peace of mind of your dad?”

“Overrated and reserved for Saturnalia,” Krem replies immediately as the others nod along with him.

“I only fed and clothed you for a majority of your life I guess,” Bull shrugs, “Alright fine, I guess I’m in, too. What’s your plan so far? Give me a brief summary because if I stay here too long your mom’ll get suspicious or - you know - side tracked.”


	169. Chapter 169

Bull doesn’t remember very clearly being made of flesh and bone and blood, he's starting to forget what it was like to move on feet and touch with hands and see with real eyes. This, more than anything, is what puts him on unsteady ground with Ellana Lavellan.

“There’s no shame in it,” Dalish tells him as she works away at the endless repairs around Skyhold. “I mean, Maxwell and Cassandra weren’t involved with each other at all before Surana was cursed and now they’re absolutely smitten. I’m not sure how suit of armor and  a fainting couch are meant to get along, but Maxwell seems pretty pleased with Cassandra whenever her pieces just lie down on him. Even if her metal parts occasionally snag on his embroidery.”

“That's not it,” Bull tells her. It’s partially it - there is something incredibly awkward and confusing and entirely embarrassing about falling in love while you’re cursed to be objects instead of people.

Because Ellana and Mahanon Lavellan were just traders that happened to be on the grounds when Flemeth cast her curse of Surana; Surana, who loyal and brave and headstrong, refused to turn Morrigan over to her.

Now Morrigan is a medicine cabinet and her son is a small, delicate crystal bottle.

Fucking - Bull can’t even remember how old the boy was when the curse happened. Five? Seven? Was he older?

From Bull’s fading memories - part curse, part monotony of the castle, part  _time_  - the boy had been small. Whenever Bull saw him he was  _small_  and always close to his mother’s side. He’s smaller now, sure, but -

Ellana and Mahanon had been here to trade goods for the fall and winter, and ended up cursed along with the rest of them.

Mahanon is a sullen sickle who spends his time tending the gardens of Skyhold with a spiteful determination to transform the previously manicured and neatly compartmentalized Orlesian styled garden into a wild and natural chaos.

Ellana is a beautiful loom, endlessly weaving away with threads that never seems to run out. He likes to be in the room with her as she goes, softly murmuring to herself and creating fantastical scenes from her mind to enrich their lives.

Most people do like to go to the room where she’s been housed until the curse breaks or when the curse reaches its end and they all just - cease.

Every few months it takes a good dozen of them to come together and help her to a new room. She likes to insist that she’s fine being in just one room as long as people come to talk to her, but that can’t be good for anyone.

What troubles Bull about Ellana and himself is that -

He can’t remember what she looked like as flesh. Did he ever really know? Did he ever really try to know? She was a trader he saw once or twice a year in passing on the grounds. He knew  _of_  her, but he did not know  _her_.

He has a very vague memory of light skin and dark hair and possibly dark eyes - or was that Mahanon? But wasn’t Mahanon light hair and dark skin and light eyes? Or was that Ellana? Which one of them had the braid? Which one of them wore the bear-skin cloak around their shoulders?

And -

What was he like in comparison? How much taller was he? How much older?

Age has been muddled by the curse. Time seems to pass quickly or not at all. How many years has it been?

Dorian swears that it’s only been three years, but Bull also knows that Dorian has confided in Kaaras that he’s not so certain in his own time keeping abilities. He’s slipped a few times, found himself stalling.

“There’s a man!” Dalish pauses in the middle of sewing a tear in one of the blue sitting room’s curtains and Bull turns a little towards the door. “There’s a man in the castle!”

“Hawke’s gone off it again,” Dalish says, but she sounds uncertain. Hopeful, even.

“You’re the one next to a window,” Bull points out, but he’s already going off to try and find Ellana to tell her the news, if no one else has beat him to it already.

The room Ellana is currently been put up in is just four doors down from the sitting room. They’d put her as close to the window as they could. Right now it overlooks the garden that Mahanon has run with an iron fist for the past three years, particularly a magnificent arrangement of trees and half-wild hydrangeas.

Bull thinks that Mahanon partially does this for his sister - that his sister will see it and be reminded of him, of home. Of the world beyond the curse and Skyhold.

Ellana is merrily weaving away when he comes to her. Her latest project depicts a stunningly intricate pattern of white and pink flowers. She used to do scenes, people, places. She’s been doing them less, now.

Bull refuses to think about why.

“There’s a possible contender to break the curse on the grounds,” Bull tells her.

“Really?” Ellana says, only half-way audible over the sounds of the shuttle. Bull watches as the cloth seemingly forms itself on her. “How delightful! How long has it been since the last one?”

Bull doesn’t know.

“You were making sunflowers on a blue sky,” Bull tells her instead and she  _ah’s!_. That one is still in Bull, folded up compact and neat next to a scene of a sunset over the Frostbacks. One of her earlier projects.

“This is a most momentous occasion,” Ellana says with playful solemnity, her shuttle stopping altogether. “Bull may I store this one in you?”

Bull allows his lid to swing open for her, revealing the other finished and half-finished projects of hers within.

“If there’s room,” Bull says. “De Fer found a home for the diamond patterned lavender one a few days ago. I think this will fit. It’s only a third of the way done.”

“Wonderful!” Ellana says as the cloth begins to remove itself from her. “I really do appreciate you holding onto these for me, the Iron Bull. I’m sure that there are plenty of other things you could be doing with all of that space. And it must be such a bother to carry them about. Cloth can be surprisingly heavy.”

“What’s the use of an empty chest?” Bull says as he feels the new cloth start to fold and settle inside of him.

Ellana laughs as she restrings herself, the strings vibrate with her laugh, a chorus of its own.

“I wonder what sort of man he is,” Ellana says. “Are you going to meet him at the door?”

“No,” Bull says, “That’s up to Cullen and his crew to see to the people on the grounds. Leliana and Josephine will probably be watching, too.”

“I bet you they play  _haunted_  on him,” Ellana says. “I do hope they don’t give him too much of a fright. Bull, if he stays and if he seems good to you, wont you give him one of my tapestries? It gets dreadfully cold and it can seem terribly lonesome in the castle. Maybe the color would cheer him up.”

“We’ll see,” Bull says. She asks this of him every time. He’s yet to meet one worth giving one of Ellana’s precious tapestries to. “In any case, if we hear screaming and crashes in the next half hour or so, we’ll know won’t we?”


	170. Chapter 170

"They're not happy,” Bull translates, cutting down the Qun’s message to the core as Lavellan plays with her fingernails, examining the chips on her nail polish - done with Josephine in a barricaded and heavily guarded room under Bull’s watchful eye as they took care of a small  _infestation_  problem. A problem that Leliana is still equally parts angry and apologetic about - and focuses on the face of the Qun representative across the table from them.

“They’re the  _Qun_ , Bull,” Lavellan says, a touch fond and mostly tired, “When have they ever been happy?”

Point. Bull shrugs a shoulder. He doesn’t know the agent the Qun sent to negotiate. Probably for the best for both sides, really.

“Ask them about the hand,” Lavellan says.

“Boss, they know about the hand. Everyone knows about the hand,” Bull says. “Even the cleanest of the clean cops know about your hand.”

Ellana Lavellan, leader of the Inquisition - the largest and fastest growing criminal organization since the Wardens - losing her right arm in a huge battle royal face-off against her one time advisor, traitor and turn-coat and secret mob-boss himself is not  _news_  to anyone. Well - it’s still news in the fact that people are still talking about it, the situation itself is still playing out, developing, changing,  _growing_.

That is why they’re sitting here at this table in a nondescript conference room in a shell of a corporation that will be gone within the next two months.

The Inquisition and the Qun have had their troubles with each other, but they’ve also had mutual enemies.

Corypheus and his gang of Red Templars, the radicals and the nationalists he absorbed along the way and the Darkspawn to name a few.

Solas and his extremists are another common enemy they can look at, even if their ideology in dealing doesn’t exactly line up.

“Ask them about the hand,” Lavellan repeats, voice that much firmer, that much sharper, and that much  _dead weight on gravel and off the edge of the docks_.

So Bull asks if they know about the hand.

The agent stares back solemnly at him and then answers in Trade, “We know about your loss.”

Lavellan’s teeth appear like a slow line of dancing girls making their way on stage and then finish with a grand finale like an execution style gunshot to the back of the head.

“If you honestly think that your assistance, your  _presence_ , or even your  _opinion_ is necessary or even factoring into the reckoning I will personally deliver for the theft of my arm then you are self absorbed and blind,” She says, “I extend my remaining hand to you out of courtesy and respect not out of any real necessity, and it is uncharacteristically naive of the Qun to think otherwise..”

Lavellan pulls the gun out of her shoulder holster and puts it down on the table between them, pushing it with her fingertips with enough force that it slides across easily, spinning to a slow stop right in front of the agent who just continues to give her a long, hard look.

“Now, tell me.  _Where do I find the maker of this gun_?”

-

“You aren’t going to kill him?” Bull asks, and Lavellan turns over her shoulder, eyebrows raised as Cullen helps her into her jacket.

“Do you  _want_  to kill him?” Lavellan asks.

“He’s a loose end,” Bull replies. He should be dealt with.

“Are all loose ends threats?” Lavellan says. The answer is  _no_  otherwise they’d end up killing everybody they ever talked to ever. Bull, himself, would probably have to be killed. “I have what I need here. Leliana?”

“That is most likely all we are ever going to get,” Leliana says, an elegant and pale shadow just to Lavellan’s left as Cullen and Rylen do a final check to make sure they’re clear to head back to headquarters. “I doubt that he’ll be useful in the future. The fact that he even knew this much was a stroke of good luck.”

“If they come back he could turn on us,” Bull says, “Sure, they may kill him for turning on them first, but still. Who knows what they could get?”

Lavellan rolls her shoulders in her coat, adjusting the fall of it and pulling her hand in her pocket. She shrugs, dismissive.

“Take care of it,” She says, turns around, and leaves. Bull watches her go, her body swallowed up by heavily armed guards as they make their way to an equally heavily armed vehicle.

Bull’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he takes it out to check.

Leliana’s sent him some coordinates. A place to bring the body, most like. It’s not an order, not even a suggestion.

After all Lavellan didn’t say  _kill the informant_. She also didn’t say  _let him go_ , either.

Bull turns the phone over in his hands.

 _Take care of it_ , Lavellan had said. Because to her it was just that easy.

Nothing would touch her past the Inquisition, past Cullen, past Leliana, past Bull. No one would even think about it. And if they did, they’d be ready.

Who would be stupid enough to put themselves straight into her cross hairs? And who would even be powerful enough to warrant that kind of attention?

At the moment there’s only  _one_  person on their shit list and this guy? Isn’t that person.

In Lavellan’s eyes there is only one person worthy of her attention and caution. Compared to what they’ve dealt with before, Bull doesn’t blame her. It isn’t even arrogance or blind-vengeance. It’s simple fact.

Lavellan makes the Qun pause. She makes the Red Templars reign themselves in. She’s even got the Wardens watching their steps.

She has both the Ferelden and the Orlesian families eating out her hands and she has Antiva, Nevarra, and the Free Marches carefully watching to do the same.

He slides the phone into his pocket.

Lavellan’s focus can be attached to one specific person because she trusts the rest of the Inquisition to look at what she doesn’t have the time for.

Bull turns around and goes back into the safe house.


	171. Chapter 171

"That's a fine man you have for yourself,” Isabela says as Lavellan finishes her towering masterpiece of hot chocolate, whipped cream, caramel, sprinkles, chocolate chips, marshmallows, and cookie sticks.

“Yeah, he’s really great. He’s got a huge dick and everything,” Lavellan says.

Isabela sighs.

“I didn’t get it right, did I?”

“No, sweet pea, you didn’t, not even close,” Isabela says, “Maybe if you were talking to another man?”

Lavellan frowns and starts working on a second mug of hot chocolate, pushing her finished one down towards Sera.

“Dare I ask?” Sera says as she squints at the drink, trying to figure out where to start from.

“This is how heterosexual people talk,” Lavellan says, “But I guess I’m not doing it right.”

“Do I want to ask  _why_?” Sera continues, taking a huge bite out of the whipped cream tower and shuddering before Isabela hands her a spoon so she can try and disperse it into the drink itself.

“I think I should practice not being flamboyantly queer,” Lavellan says, “Maybe it would make some of our negotiations easier. Maybe if I took the queer down a notch of two. You know. To make the heterosexual people comfortable, and I thought that Isabela could help me.”

“Maybe you don’t actually need to turn it down, maybe you need to crank it up to maximum and rip the dial off,” Sera says, “Have you considered that extreme?”

“That’s what I’m doing if this part doesn’t work,” Lavellan replies.

Just then the door to the lodge opens and Bull comes back in with Fenris, both of them looking grim.

“You didn’t get my text message did you,” Bull says, “Fucking reception.”

“Why, what?” Lavellan blinks, “What happened?”

“Hawke found a dead body in the woods,” Fenris says, “We have to go  _immediately_.”

Lavellan swears, “ _No_.”

“Yes,” Bull says, “We’ve got to repack everything. Right now. Fenris and I came back here to warn you all.”

“We just  _got here_ ,” Dorian says, coming out of his room, drawn by the sounds. “We can’t leave. We even rescheduled this from the ski-lodge.”

“What happened at the ski-lodge?” Isabela asks.

“We the people of the minority groups - queer, women, people of color, races of not  _human_  - felt bad vibes so we left as soon as we got there,” Lavellan says. She touches her fingertips to her forehead and pushes. “I had hoped that if we combined forces with Hawke’s friends that our combined  _not cis-het white male-ness_  would be able to create an atmosphere of  _not horror movie_  and we could all enjoy ourselves. I’m sorry, Isabela. I did have an ulterior motive for having you all over and it’s not because Cullen was feeling lonely.”

“I was feeling lonely?”

“We’re leaving,” Fenris says, “I’m going to find Anders and Aveline. Between the three of us maybe we’ll be able to get Mariam and Garrett to go without any drama.”

“I recognize your logic, it’s not bad,” Isabela says, “But when you were trying to counteract Cullen and Blackwall’s cis-het white male-ness - “

“I’m not even  _straight,”_  Cullen sighs, but Cassandra’s already thrown his overnight bag at him with a silent  _get packing_  look. As soon as she sees that he’s gone to listen to her she goes up the stairs towards where Josephine and Leliana had gone to take a nap.

“ _Whatever,_  you’re still white and a cis-het man. Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, Lavellan, dear heart, did you stop to factor in Mariam and Garrett’s - how do I put it?”

“Bad protagonist,” Anders says as he bundles himself up, looking chagrined and resigned as he heads towards the lodge doors. They can hear Aveline groaning with exasperation and -  _only the damned Hawkes_.

“Yes, their bad protagonist vibes?”

“Their what-what?” Sera asks.

“Have you ever noticed,” Anders says, waiting by the door for Fenris and Aveline, “That the Hawke family - mostly Mariam and Garrett - tend to find themselves in the centers of very bad movie plots? Mindless action? Terrible detective noir? B-rated horror? The occasional network TV rom-com?”

“God,” Lavellan breathes out covering her face, “I’ve sidelined us all into a very bad poorly budgeted indie horror movie starring the elder Hawke twins.”

“Nope, because we’re the smart ones who  _get out_  before shit hits the fan,” Bull says.

There’s a shriek outside the lodge and the door bangs open, Anders throwing himself back in time to avoid being hit and Merrill is standing in the doorway, holding tight onto Cole’s arm, eyes wide -

“ _I think we found big foot_ ,” Merrill says. “And he killed a person in the woods!”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lavellan says slowly, adding an extra five syllables to it. “Well. Alright. This is our lives for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Someone call Vivienne and tell her not to come because there’s going to be an ominous fog rolling in within the next thirty minutes.”


	172. Chapter 172

The story of how the Iron Bull meets Ellana has several twists and turns. But this is how it starts.

It starts with Bull meeting Josephine Montileyet  _first_  during a crowded spring break off the coast of Orlais.

Bull and his Chargers were just off a job and were taking a well deserved relaxing night off, but they had also made the near fatal mistake of taking their stop for the night in a college town and as a result they had to suffer through college students on break.

They’re were the least crowded club they could find and since all of them are definitely  _not college age_  and also looked  _not good_  no one’s had tried to mess with them so far. The bouncers and club employees were actually looking at them like some sort of soothing balm in a long, long dark night of pain. For all Bull knows, they probably were, considering that they weren’t even drunk and were keeping to themselves.

That is where the Iron Bull met Josephine Montileyet, who is also decidedly not of college age and was also distinguished by her nice not clubbing clothes, the look of harried panic in her eyes, and that she was scanning the room for something.

The woman that Bull now knows as Josephine Montileyet disappeared into the crowds and emerged close to him and his guys and she looked at him and took a bold step closer and asked -

“Do you work here?”

And they all heard the stress and the nerves and the  _not good vibes going on_.

And they were all instantly alert.

“No,” Bull says, and the woman’s eyes immediately darted back around the room, disappointment and a building pressure of nerves in her shoulders. “Why? Someone bothering you? You need me to walk you to your car or somewhere safe?”

Bull’s a mercenary, he’s not an asshole. There’s a difference.

“It’s - a long story,” the woman had said, “Could I make an incredibly outrageous request of you?”

“Ma’am,” Krem had said,  body language open and inviting and warm, “Outrageous requests are our speciality.”

And just like that, Josephine had been taken into their circle and she had given them the entire story.

Josephine’s ex-fiance couldn’t get it into his head that they were no longer engaged, and that the entire thing had been something Josephine hadn’t wanted to start with. He’d taken to hounding her in places like these when he knew she’d be mostly alone - especially since they work in similar circles to each other.

Josephine is an Ambassador for Antiva. Ex-fiance is not an ambassador, but he is a politician. They tend to travel in similar circuits.

Josephine had already run into him once that night and she managed to escape with her wits and she had decided to take the advice of one of her very close friends and find someone very big, very intimidating, and very much  _you don’t fuck with this_  material and bring him to her hotel room to scare the guy off.

Bull understands why Josephine picked him out of a crowded room.

Josephine had offered to pay him and that they could have a written contract and everything, he wouldn’t even have to stay with her the entire night, just until ex-fiance was run off.

Bull is, to repeat, not an asshole.

So he did her one better.

“How about this, I can rent the room next to yours or something,” Bull had said, “Stick around until you’re due to leave, make sure he really doesn’t come back. You don’t even have to pay me, ma’am.”

“That’s too much - I mean - I don’t want to intrude on you and - “

Dalish had interrupted here, “Please, he gets off on this. Scaring the shit into persistent fuckboys who don’t listen to  _no_. Trust us. You’re good. Do you want me or Skinner to come, too? Maybe you’ll be more comfortable with another woman around?”

That night Bull and Josephine go back to her hotel room and Josephine says that they can share - no sense in him spending his money if he won’t take hers - and Bull promises her that nothing untoward will happen and if she even feels a little uncomfortable he will leave immediately.

That is how the Iron Bull meets Josephine.

This its how that leads to the present, as in right now, as in Bull meeting Ellana.

Bull has to - first - meet Josephine’s douche of an ex.

The two of them were playing cards on the bed and making idle small talk. Josephine had already changed into her nightdress and Bull had taken off his jacket and boots. Stitches and Dalish are supposed to come by in about an hour or so to drop off his stuff.

There was a knock on the door and Josephine had stiffened and went a little pale.

Bull stood up, told her in a very quiet voice, “You’re going to be safe,” walked to the door, drew himself to his full height, opened the door, and  _smiled_.

He leaned against the doorway, filling it entirely with the slant and curve of his body and smirked down at the quivering man.

“Hey,” He had said giving the man a slow once over, “You joining in on this party or what?”

The man had very graciously declined Bull’s not-offer by gaping like a fish, going very pale, and  choking out vague syllables that probably meant something along the lines of  _I must have the wrong room_ , and then  _running_  down the hall.

Bull waved him off, closed the door and locked it, turned around and saw that Josephine had put her head in her hands.

“It’s over,” Bull had said and Josephine started to cry.

Five minutes of Bull holding her hand as she cried about how she was so relieved and that was so hilarious and why didn’t she do this sooner and  _thank you, thank you, thank you, you have no idea what this means to me_  - lead to Josephine bolting towards the bathroom to ice her face before it puffs up from crying.

Five minutes of Bull sitting at the foot of the bed and shuffling the cards and politely ignoring the fact that Josephine is not actually icing her face but having a more private cry, there is a  _pounding_  at the door.

The crying in the bathroom stops.

Bull slowly stands up and re-evaluates his opinion of Josephine’s ex-fiance.

The fucker’s got guts, at least. That’s got to mean something. Not to Bull, but to someone somewhere, probably.

But when Bull opens the door - yanks it open, really - he’s not looking down at the quivering man from earlier, but he’s looking down at a wild-eyed frantic looking woman with her first raised to continue pounding at the door.

Bull blinks.

The woman blinks back at him - “You aren’t the douchebag.  _Who are you_?”

“No, I am not the douchebag,” Bull says slowly, “Who are  _you_?”

And then Josephine calls out from behind him - voice rough from crying, a touch of a hiccup - “Ellana? Is that -  _Ellana is that you?”_

 _“Josie!_ ” Ellana cries out, darting around Bull - fast and clever because Bull had put his foot against the other side of the door, blocking it at a slant and she managed to jump and squeeze her way through - and rushing into the room.

Bull turns and sees the women collide.

“Josie! Are you okay? You’re crying, oh no - I’m so sorry, Josie. This is all my fault, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Josie, you’re okay - you’re okay, aren’t you?”

“Ellana how are you even here?”

“I traded shifts with one of the other girls to get a flight out here and then I rushed over from the airport,” Ellana says, “Josie, what happened? I got your text and I came as soon as I could.”

Josephine explains in between marveling at the fact that Ellana is here and trying to really ice her face for real this time, the entire situation and what happened five minutes ago.

She also explains that Ellana is a flight attendant who does a lot of work on the private airlines and that Ellana is usually with Josephine when she travels and heads off the douchebag ex.

“That was clever of you, Josie, I wish that just once your scum of an ex would react to me the way he does to another man,” Ellana says, “He just thinks I’m a crazy bitch.”

“Well, you did try to pound the door down,” Bull points out, “And you look like you escaped a horror movie.”

“I like you, we’re keeping you,” Ellana says, flashing a smile at him, “Thank you for helping Josie. And Dorian always says you can’t depend on the kindness of strangers. Hello, I’m Ellana. Sorry for that poor introduction, in my defense - I had a friend in need. Shall we start over?”

“Nah, that’s a damn good first impression,” Bull says, “I don’t now how you’re going to top that one. We’re cool. I’m the Iron Bull.”

And that is how the Iron Bull meets Ellana.


	173. Chapter 173

"I think your house mate hates me,” Bull says as he watches Hawke’s team go out for lunch, passing his team’s offices. He waves at Bethany and flips Isabela the finger.

“Kaaras doesn’t hate anybody, though,” Maxwell says, blinking and turning to give him a confused look before turning back down to the crossword puzzle Stitches had challenged him to solve. It involves some dead languages, apparently, and Maxwell has a surprising talent for language. Bull approves.

“Not him,” Bull says. Kaaras is an alright guy. Dalish consults with him occasionally whenever she runs into a snag on one of her cases. Bull knows the guy’s sister. She’s a nightmare of a curse breaker. He’s glad that he didn’t go into that business, she’d force him into early retirement. “I meant your other house mate. Ellana, the Champion.”

As he says her name, Ellana walks into his field of vision, next to Merrill and Anders and he gives her a friendly wave. Merrill and Anders both wave back but Ellana glares at him, scowls, grabs both her team members by their robes and hauls them out of view.

“Is it a race thing? I mean, I know the Qunari and the elves have had some contrasting viewpoints on things before,” Bull says, trailing off and Maxwell makes the most peculiar high pitched, strangled,  _scream_  that Bull casts four different charms to make sure Maxwell isn’t being attacked by dark magic or some sort of poison.

No, it’s all genuine Maxwell.

“You think Ellana hates you?” Maxwell squeaks out, voice sounding like the kind of thing that would come out of a very small, out of breath, constricted mouse.

“She turns on the Slytherin when I’m around,” Bull says. He’s not the type to stereotype unless he’s trying to  _use_  one to his advantage - big dumb jock, for example - but Ellana Lavellan is playing up every Slytherin trope that the world knows the house for and she only does it when he’s around.

He remembers her when she was in school, during the tournament, and he didn’t get any of these vibes off her then.

Now whenever she sees him she glares and scowls and turns her nose up and walks right off. She doesn’t even talk to him, she talks  _around_  him and his team. It makes him uneasy.

He’s told Hawke about it - all four of them - and they each laughed at him, with the exception of Carver who’d rolled his eyes like he was still a moody teenager and told him to come back when he had a real problem.

“Ellana is very competitive,” Maxwell says slowly, “And she’s also a Slytherin.”

“She is?” Bull asks, “She seemed pretty relaxed about the whole tournament.”

“She’s competitive about very specific things in a very Slytherin way,” Maxwell says. “Maybe it’s better to say that she’s very  _spiteful_  and runs along the lines of  _forgive but never forget_.”

“Alright - did I - I don’t know, insult her on accident and never apologize? What’s her deal?”

Maxwell looks at him over folded fingers as he lets out a shaking moan into his hands, “Oh my  _god_ , I can’t believe this is happening to me. I suffer from  _infinite crime_ , oh my  _god_.”

“What?”

“This  _isn’t about you_ , oh my  _god_ , I have to say these words  _out loud_ ,” Maxwell continues to groan, rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. “She’s cursed me somehow, I know it.”

“Lavellan’s  _cursed you_? Why didn’t you tell me, Trevelyan? For fuck’s sake - “ Bull stands up and Maxwell screams -

“ _I am dying_ ,” Maxwell yells, drawling the attention of everyone else on the team who turn to look at him with all the focus of an auror team that hasn’t had any good cases in two weeks.

He turns to them and says, “The Iron Bull thinks Ellana hates him and  _I have to explain to him why he is wrong_.”

The team abruptly loses interest, actually looks  _disappointed_.

“What am I missing?”

“Let him figure it out on his own,” Krem says, returning to fucking around with a sugar quill and some folded parchment.

“The Chief is normally a very smart man,” Stitches says, pouring himself some coffee, “But there are some things that need to be presented to him very clearly, very cleanly, and honestly he deserves every single ounce of  _oh duh, right_  that comes of it. Trust me, we have experience in this, greenhorn.”

“Oh my  _god_ ,” Maxwell moans again. “I can’t even  _tell him_?”

“Let him work it through himself, he’s a big boy,” Skinner drawls, picking her nails with a letter opener.

“I feel so sorry for you and Ellana - and goodness, Kaaras must absolutely hate life right now, how do the three of you even live together like this?” Dalish says.

“I imagine it involves a lot of groveling,” Rocky muses.

Grim rolls his eyes and goes back to sleeping sitting up.

“What am I missing?” Bull repeats, “The fuck, guys? Seriously?”

At that moment, Cassandra strides into the room, case file held in her hand and all of his aurors scramble to be the first to get it from her like puppies. Maxwell included.

Bull glares at her and she just raises an eyebrow back at him before hitting Rocky on the head with the file and handing it off to Skinner.

“What? Is that the face you make at someone who’s bringing you work?” Cassandra says.

“The Iron Bull thinks Ellana hates him,” Skinner says, “We’re telling the greenhorn to leave it alone.”

“I  _live_  in this,” Maxwell moans.

Cassandra gives him a flat stare, “You think Ellana Lavellan hates you.”

“What? You know something I don’t?” Bull asks.

“This is not a joke,” Cassandra says turning to Grim who shakes his head. Cassandra’s lip curls, “ _Ugh_.”

“Is  _anyone_  going to talk about this thing that I apparently should know?” Bull asks.

“No,” Everyone says and Cassandra turns on her heel and strides back out of the room.

“See? Even Pentaghast knows,” Krem says, “And she’s got the social graces of a Dementor.”

“That’s very rude of you, she’s a very charming woman,” Maxwell says.

“Only to you, Max, only to you.”


	174. Chapter 174

“You can’t be mad at me  _forever_ ,” Maxwell says trailing after Ellana as she stomps through the kitchen to throw together dinner. “Ellana how was I supposed to even know you still like him?”

“You live with me!” Ellana snaps, “Of course you should know. I’ve been following his career for  _years_. I have  _scrap books_.”

“You have what?”

Ellana waves her wand and murmurs an irritated  _Accio!_  under her breath. Maxwell ducks in time to avoid a book flying at the back of his head, instead Ellana catches it by the spine and the throws it at him.

Maxwell catches it and opens it. Inside are newspaper clippings of the Iron Bull’s solved cases.

Maxwell’s eyebrows raise, “You have more than  _one_?”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Kaaras says from the other room, “The plural is from the fact that she has a scrap book for all of us. One of me, one of you, one of her brother, too.”

Maxwell blinks, turning to Ellana who scowls furiously down at the pot on the stove as she starts to boil vegetables. “What would you even put in them?”

Ellana raises her wand and summons the other books. Maxwell flattens himself against the wall to avoid being hit by them. Ellana deftly catches each of them and then slams them down on the kitchen counter.

Maxwell quickly scoops them up and retreats to the living room to flop down on the couch next to Kaaras, leaning into the man’s side as he flicks open the first one.

The first one in the stack is about Ellana’s elder brother Mahanon and has photos of the two of them, a small clip of hair, some leaves and flowers, and some other bits and bobs. There’s a clipping of a small article about his animal conservatory and rescue operation, a few more articles with brief mentions of his work.

It’s got a lot of pages filled out, and each one is carefully arranged and fixed together. Maxwell can see the love and care she put into it, the pride.

Maxwell quickly passes that one to Kaaras who puts it aside. Somehow the one of her brother seems too personal, too intimate to look at too closely for too long. Even if Ellana did give it to them to examine, Maxwell thinks this is one that they should step away from, give privacy to.

The second one is about Kaaras and it has some of his letters to her. It opens with a picture of them during the Triwizard tournament. Maxwell smiles down at the pictures of them, some with him in it, a lot without. Kaaras traces the edges of the photographs with a finger, laughing softly.

There are small entries written in Ellana’s neat hand, notes about dates and times, little moments and conversations that Maxwell doesn’t look too closely at to give them their privacy.

And there are articles about Kaaras’ research, there are even excerpts from his essays and his writings in here.

Maxwell gently passes that onto Kaaras to examine, to pore over, to understand. But from the way Kaaras handles it, this is familiar. Maxwell wonders if Ellana did these on their table, in their living room or their kitchen. Maybe she did it in her room or in their shared study. Maybe when Maxwell was in training and it was just the two of them here this is what she did. Maybe she did it alone.

Maxwell swallows softly and opens the one that must be his.

His breath catches and wavers in his chest like a weak candle, overcome with love and fondness.

Ellana has much of the same from Kaaras’ in there, after all they all came together through the same source. But there are other things, too. She has the petals from a rose Maxwell gave her for graduation in here. Maxwell carefully holds the book up to his face and - yes - he can still smell it. It must be enchanted.

He runs his thumb over it, the petals are still smooth and silky, delicate but not quite  _fresh-fresh_. A few days old in their texture and their feeling, not a few years.

Maxwell turns heavy pages with a light touch, looking at the way she’s treasured their years together.

“Ellana this is beautiful,” Maxwell says.

“Of course it is, it’s you,” Ellana says.

She says it so easily.

Maxwell adores her.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’m on the Iron Bull’s Charger team,” Maxwell says as he looks down at a picture of himself in auror robes, Kaaras lifting him off the ground and beaming at him. Ellana must have taken this picture because she’s not in it.

“You’re halfway forgiven,” Ellana replies, “But you realize that I must take action to this slight against me.”

“You’re already on Hawke’s team, you could just walk across the office and come talk to us,” Maxwell says. “I feel like the situation has resolved itself.”

“Oh no,” Ellana says, “No, no. You didn’t tell me and now I’m on Hawke’s team and now I’ve got to make sure that Hawke’s team does better than yours. I’m going to prove a point, Maxwell. I’m going to out auror you in revenge for this hidden knowledge, for this duplicity.”

“You probably shouldn’t be telling him how you’re going to get revenge,” Kaaras says, gently stacking the books together on the coffee table.

“This is part one of it,” Ellana says, “You’ll see how the rest of it unfurls.”

“Ominous,” Maxwell shivers.

“Slytherin,” Kaaras shrugs.

“Dinner’s going to be ready in about thirty minutes, I don’t hear the sounds of the table being set.”

Maxwell and Kaaras immediately get up to set things together.

“You still love me even though you’re mad at me, though, right?” Maxwell asks.

“As if something so silly as revenge will stop me from loving you, Maxwell,” Ellana laughs, tossing him a smile over her shoulder, “Don’t be ridiculous. I said we bond for  _life_.”

“Ominous,” Kaaras shakes his head.

“Slytherin,” Maxwell sighs.


	175. Chapter 175

“Alright,” Bull says, nudging Skinner’s back with his foot in an attempt to dislodge her from where she, Grim, and Stitches have installed themselves at the edge of the bed watching TV that Bull has no control over.

He swears that he hasn't watched like - actual adult  _not cartoon tv_  in  _years_. Sometimes when it’s just him and Mahanon the boy lets him change the channel to daytime talkshow TV and it’s such a relief to not be watching the power of friendship that he’ll even take the gossipy bullshit. Especially if Mahanon is going to snort and make general noises of disbelief and the most outrageously insulted faces whenever he spots a fallacy in logic. That kid is growing up to be one fine little non-believer.

Mahanon is curled up in the armchair next to the window and the small little table Ellana moved in there for  _aesthetics_  and he’s crammed into the chair with Krem and they’re playing on Rocky’s old handheld.

Dalish is lying down next to Ellana, eyes half closed as Ellana absently strokes her hair while reading something on her phone.

Rocky is on the floor somewhere. Strange kid.

“Bedtime for real, it might be a Friday night but if you think I’m going to let all of you stay in this room  _all night_  watching TV and playing video games and hogging my wife you’re crazy and I’ve failed you as a parent,” Bull says, “Go tuck yourselves in or something.”

As if to spite him, he can visibly see all of his kids dig their butts into wherever they’re seated like they’re going in for a war of attrition.

Ellana’s lip twitches up but otherwise her face remains remarkably impassive.

“No. Seriously. I mean it. I’m going to make out with your mom and it’s going to be gross. There’ll be laughing and kissing noises,” Bull says.

Dalish snorts in her sleep.

“If that were true, Mom would be the first one out of the room,” Mahanon says, rubbing his cheek into Krem’s shoulder as if to say  _I’m here now, forever, and you can’t do anything about it._

“Yeah, nice try,” Stitches says, “Besides, there’s nothing grosser than watching the two of you watch horror movies together.”

“The two of you are all over each other making puppy eyes as you poke holes into the movie logic and make fun of the characters and call out tropes and stuff,” Rocky says from the floor, “It’s no fun watching  _any_  movie with you guys, really.”

“You ruined my childhood,” Skinner says, “I can’t enjoy movies.”

“And you enjoy  _that_?” Bull gestures at the TV.

Skinner shrugs, “It isn’t trying.”

True.

“Alright, fine, we aren’t going to make out,” Bull admits, putting his arm around Ellana’s shoulders and touching his fingers to Dalish’s head, gently nudging her to try and get her to move. “We’re going to do something worse.”

His kids ignore him and that’s their loss.

Ellana’s eyebrows are slowly raising but she’s also still reading along. It looks like some sort of law text or something, Bull has no idea.

“We’re going to talk about feelings,” Bull says.

It’s like  _magic_ but better.

Rocky rockets to his feet and is out the door which hits against the wall so hard with how he threw it open that it almost closes again. Kid is luck that there were clothes hanging behind the door to protect the wall or Bull’d have him fixing the dents by  _hand_  first thing Saturday morning.

Skinner and Stitches trip over each other, landing with  _thumps!_  as they do their best to get away. Grim neatly jumps over them and is gone.

Dalish yowls, grabbing onto the back of their nightshirts and sending them all into a tangle onto the ground as they yelp and awkwardly crawl-lunge their way out the door and into the hallway.

Krem falls out of the chair with a squeak and runs out.

Mahanon is the only one left but he’s sullenly tucked the handheld under his arm and is taking his sweet petulant time crossing the room.

“Scram,” Ellana says, locking her phone and putting it on the bedside table.

“ - bled eggs and bacon,” Mahanon finishes and Ellana smiles at him. One of their little games. Mahanon smiles back briefly before trotting out the door and closing it behind him.

Ellana turns to him expectantly, moving over on the bed to lean more against him, head on his chest.

“Are we really going to be talking about feelings or was this just to get the kids out of the room?”

“Yes, we’re really going to be talking about feelings,” Bull says.

“Is this a talk about marriage?” Ellana asks.

Bull looks down at her and carefully feels out the words, “Do you  _want_  it to be a talk about marriage?”

“No,” Ellana says instantly and Bull nods.

“Then it isn’t a talk about marriage. Nah, but I did want to know your feelings on a subject that is something of a big commitment.”

“Alright,” Ellana nods, turning her head up to look at him. “What’s the subject and what kind of commitment? Matching tattoos kind of commitment? A pet commitment? Another child commitment?”

“No,” Bull says, “Though the tattoo thing is maybe something we can think about later, maybe. I don’t know, I’ve always thought couples tattoos are cliched and in bad taste and also kind of a jinx.”

“Agreed.”

“And I think they’re old enough to manage a reasonable pet without it feeling like  _kids and a pet_ , like I think they could help out and stuff.”

“Also agreed.”

“The other kid thing is something we could…possibly consider but it would have to be something the entire house is okay with and it’s definitely not the topic of this conversation.”

“Alright,” Ellana lets out a slow sigh and she relaxes against him, tension running out of her he almost didn’t realize was there, “That’s a relief. I’m sorry - it’s just. I don’t think I can. I mean, I know that this is something you’re sort of used to but I’m still getting used to Mahanon and it’s been  _years_.”

“That’s fine,” Bull says, slowly curling some of her hair around his finger. “It’s not what I wanted to talk about, though.”

“You’ve stumped me, then,” Ellana says, “What is it, Bull?”

“I wanted to know if you would consider buying a bigger house with me,” Bull says, “So I guess a financial commitment.”

Ellana blinks sitting up and turning to face him, her elbow over the pillows and her head on her palm, “Oh this is not where I thought this night was going to go. Don’t get me wrong, though. I love this turn of events. I’m going to guess that you’ve got some prospects, some ideas - some research even. Lay it out for me, then. Tell me about our possible future house and what I can expect.”


	176. Chapter 176

It’s been less than two hours since Ellana dropped Mahanon off at the Iron Bull’s house for his  _first ever sleep over_  and she’s ready to get out the night vision binoculars Aunt Andruil gave her for graduating law school and drive to the nice elevated street she saw close to the man’s house to spy.

Half of her extended family would greatly approve and the other half would be exchanging money over how quickly it took for her to break and how easily.

She can practically hear her Uncles now, “All she needed was a child to get her to break, we should’ve gotten her to adopt  _years ago_.”

God, what did she  _do_  with her time before she became Mahanon’s full time guardian and  _only_  guardian?

Surely she must have had a hobby. Did she go out? Did she binge watch television? Read bad novels?  _Write bad poetry_? What the hell did she do as a person before?

Ellana knows that she hasn’t completely changed her life since Mahanon stepped into it fully. That’s not what being a parent should be about, she thinks. Obviously she works when he’s at school and she does things after she tucks him into bed.

Dad makes a vague sound of amusement and disapproval from the armchair next to the sofa but his knitting needles are still going steady on.

“Do you want me to ask you to hold my yarn like when you were little?” Dad asks.

“No,” Ellana says, petulant as she curls down into the couch and flips channels again.

“Are you sure?” Dad asks, not even looking at her as he stares vaguely at the wall. It’s a simple pattern that he could probably do in his sleep and he mostly just does it to keep his hands busy while he thinks. It’s also getting close to Mahanon’s birthday and Dad is knitting his grandson a winter set. Cape, mittens, scarf, hat, leg warmers, stomach warmer,  _the works_.

“Yes,” Ellana says, hugging a pillow to her chest as she glances down at her phone again. No news is good news, right?

“You said he was very excited for his first sleep over,” Dad says, “And that you stayed with him for half an hour before leaving.”

“You mean before he made me leave.”

Dad hums and smiles at her, “You are a very doting mother and I’m very proud of you for that. It’s charming. He’s fine. There is a literal army of children there to keep him occupied if he starts to miss you. And he knows you’re literally a message away. Knowing him knowing you, all he’d have to do was send you a text of a single  _letter_  and you’d be in the car and driving over instantly.”

“But you know him, he’s a very - “ Ellana makes a vague gesture. “You know.”

“He’s straightforward, Ellana. In ways it would do you good to learn,” Dad says, “Mahanon knows to say what he needs.”

“Not unless he thinks someone he loves needs something else,” Ellana says, “Not if he thinks that him calling me would disappoint me or do me wrong in some way.”

Dad hums, “You’re over thinking this. I’ve told you to stop being your job outside of work. It’s not healthy.”

“Says the man who’s been literally nicknamed  _the Dread Wolf_  for his courtroom tactics,” Ellana huffs.

“Better than  _the Dragon Mother_ ,” Dad says, “Or the  _Secret Keeper_  or the  _Huntress_  or  _Friend of the Dead_.”

“Why are all of our relatives so stupidly  _extra_?”

“Pot. Kettle. Change the channel back, it sounded interesting.”

“It’s a documentary on fruit flies, hahren. Made  _fifteen years ago._ ”

“It’s not a cartoon about the powers of friendship or trash news.”

Point. Ellana changes it back to the grainy images of fruit flies.

“What if I just called to check in?”

“Then you’d really make him worried and he’d want to come home,” Dad says. “Give it some time. I’m sure he’ll at least text you or call you goodnight. Trust me, Ellana, you’re going to have to learn how to deal with separation anxiety eventually. I almost had to learn it, then you  moved back in and I’ve been wondering why I didn’t push you harder to start with.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m sorry, did it seem like I was trying to be? I was going to convert your room you know.”

“Into  _what_?”

“I had ideas,” Dad shrugs.

Before Ellana can press him for what kind of ideas the phone chimes in her hands and she almost drops the thing onto the floor. Ellana’s heart almost bursts out of her chest out of panic over almost dropping her phone and possibly breaking the thing and also  _is Mahanon okay? Does he want to come home is everything alright is he hurt is he scared is he nervous did something happen how soon does he need her there can he wait for her to come does she need to pull in some favors to run a few red lights -_

The text is a picture of a little pizza that’s been decorated with mushrooms and pepperoni and green bell peppers. It’s a very pretty pizza.

 _Fun_.

That’s the word Mahanon sends her. And Ellana waits, holding the phone close to her face as she holds her breath and waits to see if he’ll say anything else.

He doesn’t.

“And is he on the brink of death, about to expire before our very eyes, without your presence at his side?” Dad asks, a smile bringing color to his face that Ellana feels resentful for because honestly he shouldn’t be thriving on her being an anxious parent.

“No. They made little pizzas for dinner,” Ellana says and passes the phone to him, “He’s having fun. He’s really happy.”

Dad takes the phone, setting his knitting to the side and his smile widens, “We could do that. He could have his new friends over and we could do something like that here. Pancakes, maybe. With berries and such.”

The phone chimes again - a different sound - and Ellana reaches out for it, snatching it out of Dad’s hand.

Dad rolls his eyes and takes his knitting up again.

This text is from the Iron Bull, it’s a picture of Mahanon and the other children dusted with flour all lined up at the table with their pizzas and comparing them.

The message says -  _thought you might be nervous. He’s doing fine, looks happy. I’ll make sure to have him call you before bedtime._


	177. Chapter 177

“Alright kids, you’re all going on a surprise walk to the park with Grandfather,” Ellana calls out through the front door and Bull hears the rushing of feet and also the closing of doors, the dropping of toys, and also several voices going at the same time.

Half the kids are ready to go and be anywhere but inside the house when they could be outside and doing outside things and the other half are petulant about their current activities being disturbed.

Bull is pretty sure that Rocky’s meticulous re-arranging of his room’s clutter doesn’t have some sort of deadline but the kid is taking it all  _very_  seriously. Bull would be proud of that kind of time keeping if Rocky would apply it to generally more frequently considered things like homework and school projects or doing his chores around the house or even how often he should be changing his pajamas without Bull intervening and forcing him to stop wearing the same thing as he has for the past  _thirteen nights_.

(“Rocky, that’s not a science experiment anymore, this is  _spite_  and I dont’ know what I’ve done to deserve this kind of treatment from you. I’m not going to beg because I like to think you respect me enough not to make me beg. _But change your pajamas and put those in the laundry._ ”)

Bull turns back to focusing at the task on hand of sorting all of the laundry and figuring out who’s is what because the kids are weirdly finicky about it. They don’t mind sharing but the clothes have to  _start off_  in the right person’s closet, dresser, or trunk - or wherever it is the kids throw their clothes when Bull or Ellana isn’t looking. He’s seen the same shirt on four of the same children consecutively last week. Krem on Monday, Dalish on Tuesday, Mahanon on Wednesday, and then Grim on Thursday.

The shirt fits a little differently on each of them.

On Krem it was a little baggy and he wore it to school over a long sleeved shirt because it was going to be cold and he needed an extra layer. On Dalish it was a little short and she was wearing it underneath a jacket she got with her Saturnalia money. Mahanon was using it at home after he changed from his school clothes. Grim was wearing it as a normal shirt to school on Thursday.

The shirt, he’s certain, belonged to Stitches to start with.

Laundry with seven children who shuffle their clothes around without regard to fit or age appropriateness of said clothing like they’re trying to con you like they’re some sort of shell-game person at the pier is a surprisingly difficult task that requires a stupid amount of Bull’s focus and unwavering attention.

The last time he accidentally put a pair of Mahanon’s pajama pants with Dalish’s both children were sulking at him for  _two weeks_.

Skinner and Dalish have also started making off with some of Ellana’s smaller more slim-fitted sweaters and t-shirts. Ellana’s clothes don’t yet fit the pre-teens by any measure, but the two girls seem to find it exciting.

Bull is in the middle of trying to figure out which of the older boys a sweatshirt he’s holding belongs to - it’s a toss up, really. Rocky’s kept his middle school sweatshirt, and Stitches and Grim each have one. He really should’ve made them each pick a different style of sweatshirt but he didn’t realize they’d grow to be so damn  _territorial_  about it. - when Ellana raps her knuckles on the laundry room doorway.

“You managed to get the entire brood out of the house without a fuss?” Bull asks, “Hey, is this Grim’s, you think? Or Stitches? Both of them keep their clothes pretty neat and don’t wear them out too hard. So I don’t think it’s Rocky’s. I should know. Rocky’s had his longer, but with the way these kids are using each other’s closets I’ve forgotten.”

“It’s Grim’s, Stitches’ sweatshirt was in the laundry last time,” Ellana says. “Are you close to done here?”

“Not even remotely,” Bull says, turning to her, “Why?”

Ellana’s face is very serious and she’s still fully dressed for the office. She hasn’t even taken off her blazer or her overcoat.

“We need to talk,” Ellana says, mouth pinched down at the corners.

Bull feels his lungs and guts clench and he nods, gently putting down Grim’s sweatshirt, flattening it carefully on the dryer and turning to face her.

Ellana nods her head towards the living room and Bull follows after her.

Krem and Mahanon had left their little elementary school homework packets on the coffee table. Grim must have been with them helping because Grim’s sketchbook is also present, closed and his pencil carefully placed on top.

Ellana sits down on the sofa, feet planted on the floor and she waits for him expectantly.

Bull slowly sits down next to her, hand on the cushions between them. She doesn’t take it.

Anxiety curls his guts into a knot that is somehow also in his throat and in his head, too.

“We tabled the discussion of more children last year,” Ellana says, “Before we moved to this house.”

A hundred things fly through Bull’s mind and a good majority of them are relief. His mind had gone to -  _not good_  places.

“Yes. You weren’t ready and I wasn’t really thinking about one,” Bull says, keeping his hand between them. “Is this something you want to talk over? Did something happen?”

Ellana nods, “Something’s come up. There was - there was a case. It didn’t end well. There was a child involved.”

For Ellana’s cases, there is usually a child involved. Ellana is one of the rare few in her firm who specializes in Family law. Solas and her aunt both handle criminal lawsuits and her extended family is a mix of everything else. The Evanuris firm has its fingers in many, many pots and they have many, many faces.

“Where is the child now?” Bull asks.

“Being held at a juvenile detention center - I - I don’t want to get into the entire thing, but he’s seventeen, Bull,” Ellana says, brows furrowed deeply, “And he has nowhere to go once they let him out. He doesn’t - he’s going to fall through the system, and I can’t let that happen. I don’t know what to do.”

“You want to take him in.”

Ellana’s face is a complicated tangle of fear and outrage and worry and anxiety.

“He needs someone to help him, he needs someone to guide him back onto the course that was taken from him. But I don’t - I don’t want to bring that here if it’s going to hurt the children we already have. I mean, we don’t have to  _adopt_  him, but we - I - could watch him. Sponsor him? I don’t know.”

Bull holds his hand out to her and Ellana takes it.

“I’d like to tell you yes,” Bull says, “But I need to know more about this situation. I need you to tell me about this boy because I understand your intentions and I understand that you want to help this kid. But I can’t agree to that even if it’s a good thing, not without knowing if this is safe before hand.”

Ellana nods, her hand is cold and clammy and Bull runs his thumb over her chilled knuckles.

“Is this something we can consider at all, though?” Ellana asks, snagging her lower lip on her teeth, “Is this something that is even a possibility? I know we have the room, but do we have - do we have the resources? Financially? Emotionally? Physically?”

“Financially we aren’t hurting and it would depend on what kind of costs this brings on. Does he need a therapist? Lots of medical attention? Tutors for school? Clothes, furniture, a phone, stuff for his own, absolutely. Rocky could share a room, but is this kid alright with sharing a room?”

Bull pauses, “How long are the kids out for?”

This is going to be a very serious discussion.

“Dad knows what I’m talking to you about,” Ellana says, “He’s good to have them past dinner, too.”

“Alright,” Bull nods. Depending on how things go they’ll need to ask the kids about their opinions, but not at this stage. He’s been through this before when he was bringing in other fosters and stuff. But that was before Ellana and Mahanon. That was before everything got - got got. “Let’s start with a name. Who is he?”

“Cole,” Ellana says, “His name is Cole.”


	178. Chapter 178

“Don't worry, Carver, someday you’ll be a real boy again,” Garrett says as Carver sullenly rattles the pots and pans on top of him. “You’ll be scowling with a face instead of a metal grate and everything. I mean I happen to think we’re doing smashingly well. This one only fainted. And then they hauled him off to the guest room closest to Ellana. If anyone’s going to charm this guy into liking Surana it’s Ellana. Apparently she can charm Anders and Fenris and Sebastian into shutting up.”

“The only reason,” Surana says as she dutifully sharpens her claws on Fenris with helpful tips from Isabela, “That I’m actively working to undo this  _gift_  is because I refuse to live in a house with all of you being as insufferable as you are. I am perfectly content with how things have played out on my part. I’ve never been better as a person: physically, spiritually, emotionally, and mentally.”

“Because of course you love being a nine foot tall monster with scales and spines and claws and fangs and such. You are such a dramatic terror I’ll never understand why you and Vivienne struggle to see eye to eye,” Mariam laughs cheerfully nudging Bethany. “New candles sister? Did your old ones burn down already?”

“They’re supposed to be lavender, from the labels on the box,” Bethany says gently waving her arms, “I thought they’d help Carver calm down. Then I forgot he doesn’t have a nose anymore. But I’m sure we can all imagine the smell of lavender, right? I mean, I think I can imagine it. Anders and Dorian both told me that smell is a very strong memory thing. Or was it the other way around? You smell something and you remember? Or you remember something and you can smell? Oh dear. I think I’ve gotten it all muddled up, Miriam.”

“The real curse is that I’m stuck in my own home with all of you lot,” Surana sighs, “I could be out enjoying myself as a strange serpent-dragon hybrid with thumbs. The best of all the possible worlds. But alas  _no_. Instead I have to  _actually undo this and go back to being a boring, weak, vulnerable flesh-person_  because otherwise I would be trapped with all of you as you are for eternity. And also because my dog does not deserve to be a little silver bell until the end of days.”

The silver bell next to Surana’s elbow barks and rings and chimes, tilting over to lean against her.

“Yes, yes, good boy,” Surana says fondly stroking the tip of a claw along the edge of the bell. “Settle down.”

“I think you’re done here,” Fenris says underneath the sound of her sharp talons rasping over his surface, “What do you  _do_  to get them dull within three days? There’s nothing to  _do in this castle that would dull them this much in three days_.”

“Things,” Surana says cryptically as she dramatically stalks out of the room, her dog, now bell, jumping and ringing and just barely landing into the hood of her cloak as she leaves.

“Ominous,” Garrett says, “I love her, I fear her and respect her, but I love the drama of her whole existence. Maker bless because we do need it. Do you think this one will run screaming for it once he wakes up? He seems young. How old is Surana again? I’ve forgotten. What if she’s old enough to be his mother?  _Oh no, Surana, no_. That can’t be her type. I refuse to believe it.”

“Gross,” Isabela agrees, “I don’t think so. I think he just has a baby face.”

“Where do you think he came from, anyway?” Bethany asks.

“Somewhere far away if he came in here willingly,” Carver says, “I’m entirely sure that everyone within a three day distance of this place knows it’s cursed and haunted and all sorts of miserable.”

“No, that’s just you,” Miriam says, she and Garrett knocking together since they don’t posses hands to high five. “Anyway according to Blackwall and Edric the guy seemed cool with everything until Cullen started talking and then he fainted. Before he fainted he did say,  _I hope the cheese knife talks too_.”

“He’s off then, just great, we’ve got a crazy one,” Carver groans, “What if he’s a cultist? We had one of those a few months ago and it took forever to drive that one off. I thought we’d actually have to let Surana kill that one.”

“Well, we did roll his body up and toss him into a stream,” Bethany points out. “So maybe he is dead.”

“Ellana would be incredibly disappointed to find out that that’s what happened to her sunset weave,” Garrett says, “I’m surprised that we haven’t somehow cocked it up and let it slip to her that no, in actuality, Surana didn’t accidentally snag it on a sharp pointy part and rip it beyond salvaging, in actuality we used it to smother and bind a lunatic and then toss him into a river.”

“It could be because every time it seems like the conversation gets into dangerous territory the Iron Bull distracts her,” Bethany says. “He’s very good at that.”

“I think he takes his job very seriously, which is appropriate in that he has a literal lock for a mouth,” Isabela says, “That witch was uncanny.”

“And yet you’re somehow a feather duster and I’ve never seen you lift a finger to clean anything in all of our years as friends before this incident,” Miriam says. “In fact, even now I haven’t seen you actually clean anything.”

“I don’t see your point, Hawke, I mean look at Sebastian. He’s a windowpane and somehow he still makes things gloomy and disproportionately strange and extravagantly unnecessary.”

“Sebastian is plenty nice,” Bethany says.

“Oh, love, when that man is in one of his  _moods_  I swear to you that there is nothing and no one who can get a single beam of sunlight through him. I don’t know how the hell he does it. He’s glass, for fuck’s sake.”


	179. Chapter 179

Lavellan sneezes, it’s adorable and it's doing - frankly - incredibly terrible things to Bull’s internal through processes and outlook on life.

She looks up at him expectantly. Bull has a vague idea of what she wants but he doesn’t know why she’s looking at him for this.

She continues to look up at him, waiting, and Bull continues to look down at her, baffled.

He wonders how much it would fuck her up if he told her that he likes her better as an adult who vocalizes her needs and wants (usually without prompting) and doesn’t look at Bull like some sort of parental figure. Normal appropriately aged Lavellan looks at him with a mixture of respect, love, and pride. Normal and appropriately aged Lavellan looks at him with need and desire and yearning. Normal and appropriate Lavellan looks at Bull and he knows what she wants and knows how to give it to her in a way she can accept and understand and appreciate.

Magically de-aged Lavellan looks at Bull and he doesn’t know why she expects him to deliver.

Thankfully Dalish, in all of her mothering and nurturing and much more appropriate for this situation glory, sweeps in and starts wiping the little girl’s face with all the brisk, practiced acceptance of someone who’s done this before and wouldn’t think twice about it.

Honestly, Bull wouldn’t even do this for his regular Lavellan. The only time he pictures himself wiping her face is if she’s covered in blood or possibly vomit and unconscious or about to be there.

She wouldn’t look to him to do that anyway.

“I want her back to normal,” Bull says, the words cracking their way out of his ribs without his voluntary permission. Lavellan looks up at him, curious because no one has flatly told her that she’s not the right age and that she’s missed about two or three decades worth of memories. No one is quite that cruel or impatient, not yet. The words are sharp and uneven in the air.

“Of course you do, we all want her to go back to the way she was before,” Dalish replies calmly smoothing their jagged edges over with ease, “These things take time. Everyone is doing their best to figure this out. You know that. You can’t rush that kind of work. It would only lead to mistakes and there is not trial run for this. We can’t risk doing any further damage. What if we just exacerbated the situation?”

“Pavus figured out how to reverse engineer a fucked up time-travel spell that was mutated and warped by the Breach and Red Lyrium and dark magic in less than one minute while he was about to be killed and working through magical exhaustion,” Bull says, “This can’t be that far off from that. It’s some sort of time something.”

Dalish ignores him and he’s a little grateful for it. He knows he’s being stupid about the whole thing.

He wants  _his Lavellan_ back. Not this child, not this version of her he doesn’t know and doesn’t understand, this version he can’t share and be shared with. This version that will someday become the woman he knows and trusts and fights for and with. This version who shows the promise of the future that has already happened.

The child is alright. The child is not a placeholder for the Inquisitor of Thedas, the slayer of demons, the chaser of dragons, the nightmare of courts, the storm on legs, the speaker of uncomfortable truths, the woman Bull let himself finally cleave himself off of the Qun for.

The child is a child who happens to respect Bull enough to listen.

She is not his Boss, she is not his Kadan. She is not  _his_  anything.

Dalish finishes wiping the child’s face and picks the girl up in her arms. The girl yawns and nuzzles her face into Dalish’s neck and light hair, small fists curling up in preparation for a nap. She goes so easily. Perhaps that’s the only thing about her similar to her normal self.

Dalish gives him a look that clearly tells him to pull it together.

This Lavellan doesn’t know why he’s the way he is. Bull understands that. It’s somehow something entirely different and more difficult to get his head to work around it.

It is not her fault that she’s like this.

It is not her fault that she does not remember or understand the situation she has abruptly found herself in. It is also not her fault that the situation of the Breach, Corypheus, the Red Templars, so on and so forth is getting worse without her normal correctly aged self - with magic, and the Anchor, and her ideas, and her steel - to deal with it. It is not her fault that Leliana and Cullen and Josephine are spinning their wheels uselessly to try and hold everything back until a solution is found - patching over holes in the hull of a sinking ship.

It is not her fault that Bull is coming to the realization that he is not as good at adapting to a situation as he thought he was, only just now.

None of these things are even close to her fault, just like she can’t be blamed for being - magicked or cursed or whatever the correct term would be.

Bull takes in a slow and steady breath and nods to himself.

Dalish runs her hand over Lavellan’s small back, that rises and falls in the pattern of easy sleep. A child’s sleep.

Bull does not reach out for her. Dalish doesn’t try and get him to.

She does sit next to them though, still holding the child that is their Boss in her arms as she sleeps. Dalish idly arranges Lavellan’s dark hair, shifting Lavellan’s weight for an easier carry. Bull turns away from them, turning his focus back to the coded letters he was helping Leliana break.

How strange it is, to miss someone who hasn’t left you.


	180. Chapter 180

“Fucking -  _damn it_ , Lavellan, do you think I’m doing this to be an asshole?” Bull snaps, temper at the point of steaming, long past boiling and spitting and scalding, now transforming and transformative. “I am doing this because it is my  _job_. It is my  _duty_. I’m your bodyguard. I protect you from what’s  _out there_.”

Bull jabs his finger in the general direction of  _not this underground bunker_  where they’re hiding and building and regrouping and recovering and have been trapped together here for weeks with nothing to do but reconstruction and repairs and renovations and revenge.

That drugged up fucker is going to pay for Haven. Most of those people weren’t even Inquisition, they were just there out of circumstance - stranded by the war between the police and the army and the renegade gangs and the shattered remains of the Circle and the fragmenting Templars. They were not part of this.

“I protect you from hitmen, assassins; I keep you safe from rival gangs and from dumb upstarts who want to try shit with you; I keep you safe from bullets and knives and bombs and poison attempts and other spies. I protect you from  _them_ , Lavellan. I do not protect you from  _you. I can’t._ Your bleeding heart is going to get you killed.”

Lavellan’s face twists in pain and Bull wishes he could say that he hates he put it there. But in this moment he doesn’t because he needs to her to understand that he can’t do this.

“It doesn’t matter how much I try or what I do if you keep inviting the danger in,” Bull says, “These are mistakes that are going to come back to get you. I can’t keep up. I’m doing this for you. Everything I do - everything I think of is for you. It’s to keep you  _safe_. It’s to do my job, my duty to you, what you  _pay me to do_. What you  _keep me around for_. And half of that is to limit the risks around you that could turn into damn problems. Do you understand me? You are too important to loose.”

“You can’t keep me in a bubble, you can’t force my actions to keep me safe,” Lavellan snaps.

“I’m not trying to, you aren’t understanding me,” Bull runs a hand over his head, frustration making his palms hot with trapped anger. “I’m not trying to keep you in an fucking bubble. If I wanted you in a damn bubble I would’ve locked you in the vault. I’m trying to limit the ways danger can get access to you. But you’re inviting in all these people left and right without checks or promises or any sort of reassurance and that has to stop. That has to stop before you let something in that we can’t get rid of.”

“We already have a  _spy_ ,” Lavellan sneers and Bull’s knuckles crack as he presses his hands against his sides. “These people aren’t dangerous, these people are here to help us. They want the Red Templars and the Red lyrium off the streets as much as we do.”

“It isn’t about that,” Bull says, “Do you think I’m doing this to be cruel? When have you ever known me to be cruel like that, Lavellan?”

Lavellan’s eyes catch his and snag, he feels the threatening rip of a wound about to be torn open again. He almost regrets his words.

“Dorian,” She says, the first rip of skin, “I’ve known you to be cruel with Dorian. When the two of you were together, for that short amount of time. You two were absolutely wretched to each other. You were unrecognizable in your bitter hate of each other. I didn’t know either of you. For a while I hated you both. You hated him and you made him feel good and you made him hate it. And he hated you just as much, you turned your hate on each other and I wanted to kill you both for it. Yes, Hissrad, I  _have_  known you to be purposefully cruel. And I  _know_  that this isn’t it. But whether you like it or not this is your duty. And if you dislike it so much you can damn well leave. Quit.”

Bull’s anger collapses like a black and not-quite yet dying star. It purifies. It refines. It burns to its truest self.

“You know I won’t.”

“Do you want me to  _fire you_?” She whispers, “Is that what you want? Do you want to be free of me? Of this? Shall I tell the Qun that you’ve failed, that you’re no longer worthy to serve? Should I tell them that you are not fit to ever return?”

His hand would close around her throat and she would be silent before anyone could come.

Bull’s anger spins a slow, tearing circle in his chest, ripping bones with the terrible force of its gravity.

“No,” He says, just as soft, no less furious.

“Then you do what I tell you,” She says, “And you don’t ever undermine me like that again. Am I understood?”

“Yes.”

-

“So you were right.”

That’s what she says to him, as soon as he finds her, lying there like someone’s lost toy. She’s flat on her back, almost like a snow-angel with how pale she is - blood loss against the black burned and ashy ground - except that she’s missing her arm up to her elbow.

“Where is he?”

His own voice sounds like it’s being snarled into his ear instead of coming out of his mouth. It sounds like somebody else.

And then he is on his knees, the fabric of his combat uniform growing sticky with blood as he gently puts his hand underneath her neck, fingers sliding through the tacky and gritty texture of her blood and ash coated hair as he gently rolls her into his arms.

“My bleeding heart did kill me one day,” She says, eyes half open as she stares blankly up at the sky. She looks defeated. She looks crushed. She looks hollowed and empty.

There is fire in his palms and violence in his chest and a raging storm of bone and shrapnel spinning inside of him and Solas isn’t even here for him to take it out on.

“Hey,” She says and his eye focuses on her, the blood flecks on her face, the colorless almost waxy pallor of it, the black ash and the hair that’s fallen into it, stuck. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Bull says.

It means a lot of things, that  _no_.

No, don’t leave like this. No, don’t give up. No, don’t be sorry. No, this isn’t over. No, don’t say it like that. No, you aren’t gone yet. No, you don’t get to leave like this. No, this is not how you leave my life after all the things you’ve done to remake it for me. No, this is not how I will remember you. No, this is not how you will remember me. No, this is not how I lose you. No, you don’t get to just give up this way. No, you don’t get to have this kind of ending. No, you don’t get to lie to me or hide things from me or think to try and conceal the truth because you think it’s better for me because you don’t  _know what the fuck is better for me, I know what’s better for me and it would have been you telling me from the damn start that I was going to lose you but it should never have been like this_.

It’s also simply -  _no_.

She understands.

She doesn’t smile, she doesn’t say anything else.

She just -

She just looks at him. Like she’s trying to keep the lines of his face with her.

“Don’t,” He says, begs. He’s never been above begging.

“No,” Lavellan says. And it means a lot of things, too, this no.

Bull refuses all of them.

“You don’t get to escape me like that,” Bull says, “You don’t get to run away from me, from us this way. Do you understand me? You’re going to fucking live, and you’re not going to fade away from us like this.  _Do you understand_?”

Lavellan’s breathing is a wet, whisper.

He takes that as a yes.


	181. Chapter 181

"Maybe only Skinner and Dalish should go with us,” Bull says, casting a nervous eye at the two girls who have been patiently waiting by the door for them to hurry up. “They’re elves. They’ll blend in, maybe ease your family into us a little. Make a good first impression.”

Bull considers it, “And Grim, because he makes rich people weirdly happy. I think he ran away from a rich household. I don’t know, Grim’s social workers never found out and he’s never told anyone.”

Ellana turns to Grim who’s been quietly standing next to her this entire time. His hands don’t move and Ellana shrugs.

“Your family doesn’t need to meet  _all of us,”_ Bull continues and he knows he’s being a little dramatic. It’s been two years, at some point there should have been one holiday or family get together that brought all of them into the same physical location to finally exchange faces and names formally.

Bull isn’t sure if it’s him or if it’s them but over the past two years there have been enough cancellations that he’s beginning to think that maybe Ellana’s extended family doesn’t want to meet him, either.

And it isn’t that he  _doesn’t_  want to know about Ellana’s family. They’re all at each other’s throats about ninety percent of the time but he knows that they love each other in their own weird and convoluted rich-socialite way. Especially when one of them is faced by some sort of external force in which case the entire family bands together and - in an impressive show of solidarity -  _erases that external force from existence and memory_. Bull knows because he’s watched it happen from the sidelines.

A few months into his relationship with Ellana Solas had  _personally_  come to Bull’s house while Ellana and Mahanon were in the back yard with the kids making bird feeders and said, very calmly, that she was needed for family business.

At the time Bull and thought he’d accidentally gotten involved with the mafia.

Worse.

He’d gotten involved with  _socialites_.

Someone who Bull has never gotten a name for - not even from Mahanon - had slandered Ellana’s Aunt Sylaise or her farm or her crops or her something, something, something. Point is that Ellana and the rest of the family came down on the guy like the wrath of  _god_ over a period of three weeks in which Ellana would sometimes leave the room entirely to take a call or otherwise by caught up in texting, checking emails, and other such things in the middle of activities that she’d normally ignore all interruptions for.

Ellana would never answer the phone in the middle of Mahanon telling her something. Not for work, not for anything. Except for this, Bull knows because Mahanon would go immediately quiet in that eerie way of his and stare at his mother’s face as if he could  _read her mind_.

So aside from the fact that Bull knows of Ellana’s family as being composed of extremely wealthy socialites - most of them lawyers of various sorts, a majority of them forming a firm together with their children and various other relations - and the fact that her Aunt Sylaise owns some sort of farm on the side, and the fact that all of them are fuck-all crazy about social justice and extreme acts of protest in that they will  _do the extreme act of protest,_ and that they’re one of the most powerful success stories in the history of  _fuck the human race and their imperialism_  he knows nothing about them.

And he’s  _terrified_  to a very large degree about that.

Ellana gives him a look like he’s lost his damn mind and says very slowly as though she’s talking to a spooked animal, “Alright, Bull. You do whatever makes you feel better. But I’m bringing the boys because Keiran’s never had a playmate his own age aside from Mahanon and I think it would be good for him. Also, Morrigan bet me that I’d chicken out and I’m not losing another bet to my mean older cousin, Bull. Also? I want to see the look on my Uncle’s face when I walk in with all of my kids. I want to see it, Bull.”

Bull groans.

Mahanon trots down the hall holding Rocky’s backpack.

“And what’s that?” Bull asks.

“I think Rocky would impress Aunt Sylaise and Uncle Jun,” Ellana says, “Which is good because by the end of the night I want Uncle Elgar’nan to look like he’s choking on his own tongue and getting Aunt Sylaise and Uncle Jun on my side is like - a big part of that plan. Don’t worry, it’s fine, Aunt Mythal is definitely in on it and that’s why she bribed Morrigan into coming and bringing Keiran. Also apparently Morrigan is bringing one of her best friends - Surana, who, like, absolutely sets off Uncle Elgar’nan like  _nothing else ever_. It’s going to be great.”

“I’m terrified,” Bull tells her.

“I still don’t know why,” Ellana says, “It’s just my family. Also, you’re way over dressed. I keep telling you - it’s like, super casual. It’s just the fall harvest get together.”

“Ellana, I used to think that you were going to PTA meetings straight from work because you were in slacks and blouses with heels and like - pearls and shit. And then you told me  _no_ , that isn’t the case, you were dressed like that because  _that’s your casual_ ,” Bull says. “So forgive me if I take your idea of casual with a grain of salt.”

Ellana and Mahanon, he and his kids have learned, have a very strange dress code. Certain clothes can only be worn inside the house and only during the day. Other clothes can only be worn in the house at night. Some clothes are meant for school but are not to be worn at home. Other clothes are meant for not-school but not-home. And then there are clothes for special occasions which are also not  _those occasions_. Frankly, it’s a mess and Bull’s learned to just step back and let it happen.

“Okay, but still, you don’t need a jacket with a collar for  _fall harvest_ ,” Ellana says, rolling her eyes.

Mahanon rolls his eyes, too, “Who wears clothes with collars to fall harvest anyway?”

“Well,” Ellana pauses and grimaces, “Dirthamen.”

“Gross,” Mahanon replies immediately, “Is the car open? I’m putting Rocky’s stuff inside.”

“I should make him take that back,” Ellana says, ruffling his hair as he passes. “I’m not going to. I should, but I won’t.”


	182. Chapter 182

“This is fine,” Lavellan says, face frozen into a very calm, very fake, very practiced smile, “This is fine. We’re fine. Are you fine Cullen? Of course you’re fine. And you, Josephine? Yes, you’re fine too. You can’t not be fine, you’re Josephine, if you aren’t fine I might as well lie down and die for having failed you miserably. But that doesn’t have to happen right now because we’re fine. We’re totally fine.”

“That is,” Varric says, “An overuse and misuse of the word fine. An abuse of it, if you will.”

“Shut. Up.” Cassandra says through grit teeth, slowly raising a broken chair leg like a club and lunging out from behind the knocked over and broken wood cabinet they had been hiding behind.

Something squeals, squelches, and squeaks after being hit with the full force of Cassandra Pengathast’s survival instincts. Cassandra snarls as she swings and the sound of wood against flesh is strangely comforting. Maybe because it’s in Cassandra’s extremely capable hands.

“Your four,” Cullen says, standing up and slamming down a long table leg with a quick swing, jumping on top of and then over the toppled cabinet to join Cassandra. “Please watch your four. You always leave it open.”

“Because  _you’re at my four_ ,” Cassandra says.

“See? We’re perfectly fine,” Lavellan says.

“You are  _missing an eye_ ,” Josephine says.

“No, it’s still there - it’s just not doing so great is all,” Lavellan protests. “I’m sure it’s perfectly intact. I mean, I can’t open it or anything, but I’m sure it’s perfectly - “

“Fine?”

“ _Wonderful_.”

Varric stares balefully at Josephine, “Why did you convince me to come on this trip?”

“Lavellan had made a very convincing argument,” Josephine says.

“If I had only realized sooner that the Hawke siblings were protagonists in B-rated films I would have never suggested this,” Lavellan says, breathing heavily through her nose, “I might have gotten Sutherland’s crew, or maybe Leliana’s old friends.”

“If the Hawke’s are protagonists in B-rated films then Leliana’s friends are block-buster films that leave you shaking and dazed,” Varric says, “The kind of film where  _only one person comes out alive_. And I’m telling you now, that one person? Is not any of us.”

“If the Hawke’s and their friends live in B-rated films and Leliana and her friends live in A-listed films, what are we?” Josephine asks.

“We’re perfectly fine, normal, bystanders,” Lavellan says.

“We’re fucked, mostly. Pardon my Orlesian.”

“Do you think the Iron Bull will help me find a matching eye patch to his?” Lavellan says. “It could be a couples thing. Like matching tattoos or matching shirts or matching bracelets. Matching eye patches.”

“I thought your eye was fine?”

“While it  _heals_  I mean.”

Josephine’s phone blinks to life and the three of them huddle around it, breathing out huge sighs of relief.

“Bull and Fenris have carved their way through to the group that got lost in the woods. They’re fine. No injuries unless you count Carver’s perpetual bruised ego and Miriam’s big head,” Varric says, “Dorian and Anders have contact with Vivienne. They must have figured out how to strengthen a signal and get it out. Vivienne is sending reinforcements.”

“Please let it be Harding and Rylen,  _please be Harding and Rylen_.”

“What about the other ones who went missing? Did Bull and Fenris find them? We’re still missing almost half of our party.” Cullen asks as he and Cassandra swing their makeshift weapons at  _things_. There isn’t a name for what  _they_  are.

They’re not Big Foot, that’s for certain.

“Hold on, I’m checking,” Josephine says, fingers rapidly tapping away, “Leliana’s found more of the bodies in the woods. She found Cole! I mean - he’s not one of the bodies. He’s just out in the woods also. And she found him. He’s okay.”

“Shit, I forgot we brought Cole.”

“Cole’s also found Merrill and Bethany! Oh, Lavellan, the Iron Bull’s found your phone.”

“Is it broken?”

“It’s fine.”

“The one thing that might actually be fine in the entire situation, really.”

“Wait, what about Blackwall?”

“What about him?”

“Where is he? And Sebastian?”

“Sebastian is with Bull’s lot,” Lavellan says. “Sebastian is - “

“Oh my  _god_ ,” Varric gapes and Josephine gasps. “The  _fuck_  Vael.”

“What? What is it?” There’s a loud slightly stomach-upsetting sound of him caving in something’s skull with the force of his swing, and said something  _bouncing_  on the floor.

“Sebastian just sent us a picture - and I don’t know how he got the reception for that - of him  _setting a nest of these things on fire_  and a Chantry quote.”

“Wait, he’s typing something - “

“ _He found more?_ ”

“Fire makes them angry?”

“ _Do not try fire?”_

_“They’re evolving?”_

Lavellan laughs, it’s robotic and eerie, “That’s great! Now we know one more thing about them! No fire!”

Varric and Josephine stare at her.

“Lavellan.”

“Inquisitor.”

“For like one minute, just  _one minute_ , can you - just - you know. Do your thing?”

“My thing?”

“That thing you do where you lead us out of terrible impossible improbable situations?” Varric prompts, “You know. When you pull miracles out of nowhere and like - spit in the face of probability?”

“What Varric said,” Josephine says, “I know you’re trying to keep calm, and keep us calm, and keep a positive attitude. I appreciate it, really, I do. And I know you feel bad about this situation because it was partly your idea. But at this very moment, in this  _single moment_ , could you please acknowledge the situation and not say it’s fine because you saying it’s fine is actually making me much more stressed.”

Lavellan looks at Josephine. Then she looks at Varric.

Then she slowly turns around and watches as Cassandra and Cullen fight off  _things_.

Lavellan slowly breathes in. And then out.

She closes her eyes.

She smiles.

She opens her eyes, turns back to Josephine and Varric and says, “If they can feel pain they have a nervous system. Killing things with a centralized nervous system is  _very easy_. Josephine, I’m going to need that electrical outlet.””


	183. Chapter 183

“Well what's the point in us being obscenely rich if we don’t spend our money on good causes and trivial matters?” Mahanon demands as Solas tries to explain to them that  _no_  they can’t just be handing out wads of cash to people.

“You’re going to get attacked.”

“Are you joking,” Mahanon turns to Ellana, “Sister, he’s gone senile. We can finally get him committed. It’s like our birthdays for the next sixty years come early.”

“Are you really only aiming to live until ninety two?”

“I’d rather die young and beautiful than live to become whatever it is Elgar’nan is trying to be.”

“You could pretend to show my brother respect,” Solas says, “It’s the pretense that counts.”

“You don’t even show your own brother respect.”

“Ah, but Mahanon, what if he’s still alive and kicking? We can’t die before Elgar’nan does,” Ellana says, happily playing with a bit of ripped paper and watching one of Mahanon’s dubiously called  _pets_  slither around the room. “Mahanon that would mean we lose and I’m not losing to that spoiled raisin. I’m determined to outlive him  _and_  be more beautiful than him at all times. In all aspects of the word.”

“Children,” Solas snaps his fingers to get their attention.

The two glance at him, as if only just now deigning to acknowledge his existence. How generous of them.

“You cannot give out wads of cash to random people you see and think  _ah yes, this person needs it_ , because you will get mugged, you may possibly be arrested, and you may also possibly end up the subject of some sort of trash news reel.”

“Why would we get arrested for charity?”

“Your Aunt Sylaise was arrested for giving food to the homeless and fined,” Solas says, “It’s Orlais and to this day all of us regret not moving to the Free Marches.”

“Terrible judgement,” Mahanon says. “Also fine, we’ll just do it where no police officers can see us. Also the two of us are technically sort of dating people in positions of power so I feel like we can get out of it.”

“That’s abuse of power,” Solas says.

Mahanon waves his hand to gesture at the house, “Our family got here through abuse of power.”

“Besides, hahren, I don’t think anyone would attack us,” Ellana says, “The locals know us. We’re part of the lore of the place.”

“Not in a good way,” Solas says, “They think you’re aliens. Or witches. Or some other absurd notion.”

“The other day I was waiting for Dorian to pick me up from the library and some children whispered to each other about me,” Mahanon says, “They weren’t sure if I was real or not. It was vaguely amusing in that it was nearing close to the end of the sunset. I do believe they thought I must have crossed over from some imagined plane of existence.”

“Don’t tell me,” Solas says.

“I must know,” Ellana says.

Mahanon smirks, “I allowed Clover to get lose.”

Solas groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, “How many times have I told you not to let Clover leave the grounds?”

“Oh, how delightful, I thought Clover was looking rather satisfied recently,” Ellana laughs.

Clover is a Silent Crawler that has a strange patch of scales that comes out off-gray and shaped like a clover on the side of his head. Clover is a terror. Clover deeply enjoys dropping down on people from great heights.

Clover likes to follow Mahanon and drop down on unsuspecting victims that Mahanon distracts.

Someday something is going to eat Clover and Mahanon might possibly shed a tear.

“It was all in good fun,” Mahanon says. “Anyway, as that was going on, Dorian came and picked me up and Clover made his way back home within a day or two. Apparently as an urban myth I’ve also gained the ability to teleport. It’s quite wonderful.”

“Stop encouraging the legends about yourself.”

“But the Iron Bull finds it so fun,” Ellana says, “And he’s been very stressed with work lately. Whenever I tell him about a new thing Mahanon has done it makes him smile. Solas, shouldn’t we all be doing what we can to make our loved ones feel even a little bit more at peace?”

“You’re worse than him,” Solas says.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“I know, that’s why you’re worse. It’s  _organic_ , somehow.”

It’s organic with Mahanon as well, but Mahanon has a sense of the theatrical that’s only been encouraged by his paramours it’s quickly shaving off  _years_  from Solas’ life.

But for Ellana she just has to be herself and the lore  _grows_. It builds. It sprawls. It thrives.

“Well, if this lecture is done I’m going to go,” Ellana says, “The Iron Bull and I have a date. We’re going to go to the drive in theater.”

“There’s nothing playing at the drive in theater.”

“So? Isn’t it just a nice night to sit in a car under stars in an empty lot and absorb the ambient energy of the urban city?” Ellana says, “Also we’ll probably hold hands and stuff. I might take a nap. Or a sleep. Don’t wait up for me, I might end up just sleeping at his place or in his car all night.”

“Sounds romantic,” Mahanon says, “I think if I tried it with Kaaras or Dorian they’d just get twitchy.”

“Maybe the five of us could go to the drive in together, a double date,” Ellana suggests. “Mahanon come help me pick out my outfit. I need an outfit that’s cute and also with the maximum amount of comfy-ness for the possible nap and or sleeps that’s going to be going on. And storage space.”

“Storage space?” Solas asks.

“For stuff,” Ellana says.

“Obviously for stuff,” Mahanon rolls his eyes.

“Right,” Solas sighs, “For stuff. Don’t give out wads of cash when you’re going there.”

“Maybe some of the stuff I’m bringing is wads of cash to give to people. You can’t stop me. I’m a grown adult,” Ellana says, “Besides I found that gold in the woods fair and square, you said so yourself. I can do whatever I want with the money I got from trading a fourth of it in.”


	184. Chapter 184

“Why do you think women’s pajama pants have such deep pockets and normal trousers have you know - the fake stuff?” Ellana asks as she examines a pair of light pink pajama pants. “What is it that women put in their pockets at night that they don’t put in their pockets during the day? Sometimes if I put my phone in my pajama pockets I lose the darn thing and I have to like - stick my hand in my pants to figure out where the thing is from the other side. It’s like some sort of magic vortex.”

“To be fair,” Bull muses as he adjusts the strap of Ellana’s shopping bags on his arm, “You do carry a lot of shit in your pockets at home in your pajama pants. There’s the flash light, the alarm fob, the switch blade…”

“Alright,  _normal women_ ,” Ellana rolls her eyes, “I’m sure that the people who make these things aren’t designing them with people like me in mind.”

“People rarely do design anything with former international crime lord - “

“In  _training_. I never actually became a a crime lord, I was just in  _training_.”

“ - and their storage needs in mind,” Bull says. “That said, you good?”

“I’d be better if we could go home,” Ellana sighs morosely as she tosses the pajama pants into her shopping cart. “Do you need anything here?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Bull shrugs. “I have a lot of clothes at Skyhold, anyway.”

Until further notice Ellana and Bull have been  _banned_  from returning to their home while the Inquisition tries to untangle and deal with however many international powers of interest are trying to actively assassinate the two of them.

Ellana made a huge stink about it until Evelyn gave her a ridiculous amount of money to buy necessities with. It’s half an apology and half a bribe. Ellana took it with grace.

“Well, it couldn’t hurt to have a little bit more,” Ellana says, determinedly pushing the cart towards the men’s section of the store. Bull follows sedately after her, quickly picking up a light sleeping shirt that looks like it could possibly match the pants Ellana just got. She can’t just sleep using his shirts all the time and he knows she’s going to regret thinking she could later.

Thus far most of Bull’s use in this little shopping trip has been to hold her bags, make idle small talk, and throw in the occasional opinion and or suggestion.

Such statements have included:

“Your tits would look great in that, but maybe go a band up. You were complaining about bruising on your side remember?”

“I know you like that color, but I also know that you always complain when you get home with that color and try it on saying it makes you look like you have jaundice.”

“That color combination really goes well together, babe, you should go for it. We both know it’s hard to get just the right balance of blue and orange without it looking fuck-all trashy.”

“No, I don’t think that Evelyn is going to let us go home before you run out of underwear. You’re going to need more than one five pack.”

“No, my dick would not fit in those.”

The last of those comments was because Ellana had felt that if she had to buy more underwear so did he and sizes in Orlais are always buck-wild weird and they were eye-balling it. The last comment was also overheard by a group of teenagers who burst into uncontrollable and hysterical laughter as they ran away red-faced.

“Ah, to be young again,” Ellana had mused, digging through the shelves to find the next size up.

“It’s like Evelyn thinks we can’t take care of ourselves,” Ellana says, starting in on a conversation they’ve had about twelve times since Evelyn forcibly evicted them off their own property and shuffled them past international borders onto hers.

“To be fair we did get pretty beat up a few times,” Bull points out, because he feels a certain obligation to Evelyn for repeatedly covering their asses and keeping them out of local jail. Himself particularly for imagined spousal abuse that their neighbors must be having the most wild fantasies about considering that Evelyn literally hauled them off in official Inquisition armored vehicles. “We should take this time to think about things. I think.”

Ellana shoots him a look before tossing some underwear packs into the cart over her sleepwear, “By things you’re thinking about the driveway paving, aren’t you?”

“It’s soaked in blood and that’s a complete loss right there,” Bull says, “And I saw this thing and I want to try it and if it turns out shitty I’m pretty sure it’ll be easy to go over.”

“You want to make pretty patterns in our driveway,” Ellana deadpans, “Tell me how that’s going to work on the gradient of our drive. Explain it to me. Because I saw what you saw and I admit that it’s really good looking and super charming and it would definitely accent the paint of the house’s porch and smaller details  _wonderfully_. I admit that, Bull. I admit all of that freely. But. But.  _But_. I don’t think we can do it with the current gradient and I don’t think we could ever get the gradient to such an angle that it would work well.”

“Babe, I’m a former  _deep cover spy_. I can do this kind of math in my  _sleep,_ ” Bull whines, “Let me at least try it?”

“Show me the math first then,” Ellana says, “And while you’re at it, explain to me how we’re going to get the stairs and path from the front gate to our door to match. Hmm? Explain that one to me,  _babe_.”

“I will,” Bull says, “You drive, I’ll do the math on the way back to Skyhold.”

“Mhm,” Ellana hums, pushing the cart towards the socks, “Alright, you do that math. We’ll see who’s right. I’m just trying to reign you in. Just like you reigned me in when I was thinking about redoing the entire patio with tile.”

“It was the wrong kind of tile, the first time it rains we’d both split our heads open after sliding. It’s a totally different issue. I know what I’m doing.”


	185. Chapter 185

“What do you think the new professor will be like?” Malika asks Sutherland who just gives a miserable shrug. “Come on, we have to be here for our GE’s but no one said it can’t be fun! I mean, it’s a 100 level course. I’m pretty sure we aren’t the only non-art majors here. Look at that guy. He looks like a history major if I ever saw one.”

“This is going to be terrible and I’m going to flunk out,” Sutherland says.

Malika gives up on him and goes back to looking around the classroom. She’s never been inside the art buildings before and it’s actually really energizing. Tall windows with their shades thrown open, concrete floors and high ceilings and this weird echo-ing feeling of space expanding and time not moving.

She can totally understand why art majors look so frazzled whenever they leave. The time distortion feeling must completely wreck them.

But Malika spends most of her time in the humanities buildings and it’s nothing but narrow windows with black lattice over them and all their stairwells are barricaded off from the outside world with thick concrete patterns to make the building look more appeasing.

It’s to keep people from jumping.

At least, that’s what Sera told her. Malika isn’t so sure if she believes that or not.

Everyone in the class sits up a little straighter when the door opens and a woman walks in.

She looks like a frazzled art person. And she’s carrying a bunch of art supplies.

“Sorry, sorry,” The woman says, “Late I know, but you know - traffic on the first day of the semester is like, what the hell even, right? ‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me, gotta put this stuff down. Lots of stuff. So much stuff. All the stuff.”

And then the woman’s face does a little happy twitch like she’s just thought of something and she abruptly drops the stuff she was holding, and turns to look at them all, “Have you ever noticed that clutter destroys your life? Hey you, possible history major I’m talking to you, how much stuff do you have with you right now? Come on, let’s see how materialism is weighing you down and slowly encouraging you towards a capitalist cycle of destruction and loss.”

“Don’t pick on my students.”

Everyone turns and sees this -

 _Man_.

This guy.

Malika stares. Sutherland wimpers.

Because this guy looks like he was carved out of concrete. This guy looks like he should be in the criminal justice department teaching students how to mace somebody and stuff. This guy looks like he’s campus security. This guy looks like he’s in the physical therapy program - as either a person attending for rehab or as the guy giving it out, it’s debatable.

This guy looks like he could drag out sculptures out of marble with his bare hands and nothing else.

And Malika is delighted to see that he’s passing out syllabi.

“Take on pass it on, you’ve gone to school before, this isn’t new shit,” The man says, “Did you drop my paint?”

“Your paint can survive being dropped,” The woman says, “Or can it?”

The man rolls his eye -  _eye, singular! -_ skyward, “Don’t you have a class to go to? Weirdo’s to teach? Other professors to annoy?”

“Only one husband to dote on though,” The woman says, turning and waving at the rest of the class, “Goodbye, have fun learning how to be creative and shed the shackles of conformity and manufactured and artificially cultured aesthetics!”

The woman trots off and leaves closing the door behind her with a loud not-slam, because the doors here don’t do that, but a strange not-sound that creates a sudden vacuum in the room.

It’s absolutely fascinating and Malika wants to be taking notes on it.

“I’m Bull, you can call me Bull or you if you’re being formal you can call me  _the_  Iron Bull. But if you just call me  _Iron Bull_  without the article I’m not going to pay attention because  _the_  is part of the name, otherwise you’re just using nouns,” Bull says, “Don’t ask why I’m called that. Welcome to Drawing 100. The lady who was just here is not your professor, I am, but you’re going to be seeing a lot of her.”

“Is she - a model?” Someone from the other side of the classroom asks.

The Iron Bull laughs, “Her? Nah. She couldn’t do that - requires too much focus on not moving. She’s a Philosophy professor and she is also my wife. But she likes to hang around and try and provoke existential epiphanies in art students because she thinks you guys have the most potential to break out of the hegemony’s molds, something something something. I’m sure you guys will get the full speech sometime during the semester.”

The Iron Bull walks up to a large table that’s probably meant to be a desk for the teacher and he puts a thick folder and his bag down on it, pulling out some paper that’s probably another copy of the syllabus or something.

“Alright, to get it out of the way I’m the Iron Bull; I’m new to this school as a professor so you aren’t going to find me on any of your professor rating websites. I’m also going to be teaching sculpting and architecture classes for anyone interested because that’s what I did before I came here. Yes, I have taught before but not in this country. Yes I can actually draw things even though I mostly work in other mediums. Yes, I am missing an eye and some fingers. Yeah, I definitely know I don’t look like I belong here, but you’re the one who signed up for this class so I don’t have to prove anything to you. Okay, roll call. I’m only doing this once but I will  _know_  if you miss class and I  _will_  be marking it off your grade if you skip more than once or twice without letting me know with twenty four hours of you skipping. University policy, sorry.”


	186. Chapter 186

They were right, the only one who wears a collared jacket to fall harvest is Dirthamen. It’s a pretty interesting jacket. It’s made of blue velvet and he’s wearing it over an orange t-shirt with a cartoon fox on it. He’s also wearing a scarf wrapped around his head with a very small space for his eyes visible.

“And this is my Uncle, Dirthamen, he’s the twin that doesn’t show his face very often,” Ellana says, pending down to kiss the side of the man’s face. Er. Scarf.

The man’s drops the peas he was shelling into a metal bowl and starts signing.

“I don’t think I’ve heard him talk outside of a courtroom in my entire life,” Ellana says.

“I don’t know that sign,” Bull says.

“Oh don’t worry about it,  _no one does_ ,” Ellana shrugs, “He makes it up, mostly. Not even Uncle Falon’din understands half the time. What do you think, Grim? Uncle, this is Grim. He’s one of my middle boys. He’s a gentleman and a rogue.”

Dirthamen’s eye-slit in the scarf slowly moves down towards Bull’s leg, where Stitches has attached himself, and to where Stitches has also attached Grim to himself.

Stitches isn’t normally very shy, but sometimes his anxieties show their heads in strange places. So while Mahanon dragged the rest of the kids outside with Keiran to introduce them to the farm animals, Stitches is with Bull getting the introduction to the people. And Grim is also here because Stitches grabbed the closest sibling and wouldn’t let go. Grim’s doing very good about it and Bull is proud of him for helping his brother.

Grim raises his hands and says hi.

Dirthamen flashes a thumbs up and then offers the bowl of peas to the boy and Stitches with a vague nod.

Ellana ushers them along, except Grim stays behind and Stitches detaches from Bull’s leg. Stitches doesn’t look as nervous as he takes the metal bowl, and Bull figures that they’ll only be one room away. It’s fine.

Ellana’s hand slides into his as they walk into a fierce arguement between three women - and one bystander who’s sipping a very large, very full glass of wine.

The person drinking sees them and raises their glass at them just as one of the women at the table, sitting in front of many thin almost paper-thin squares of dough slams her hand on the table and snaps, “Listen bitch -“

The woman standing at the head of the table puts down the bowl she was mixing meat and vegetables together in looks up sharply, “Andruil,  _we do not say that word in this house.”_

 _“For fuck’s sake,_  Sylaise, we’re all adults here.”

“Andruil. We do not use that word in this house,  _what do we say instead?_ ”

The woman in front of the squares gives a very put upon sigh, rolls her eyes and repeats, sounding incredibly annoyed by the proceedings, “Listen,  _binch_.”

“That’s better, binch,” Sylaise nods, “You may proceed in tearing our sister a new one, now.

“I don’t even know why your’e mad,” The final woman at the table says as she wets her fingers to dampen the edges of the square before rolling it around some meat and vegetables and putting it onto a tray at her side. “You didn’t want the case, you said it was a definite loss. You shouldn’t be mad at me for taking an interest. It’s not  _my_  fault that I’m better than you.”

“Aunties!” Ellana sings out over the beginnings of another argument, “And Uncle! Meet my not-yet-quite-sort-of-in-the-spirit-of-the-word-but-not-legally-binding-meaning-of-it husband! Bull, this is Aunt Sylaise - this is her farm -, and Aunt Andruil, and Aunt Ghilan’nain. And over there that’s Uncle Jun, he’s Aunt Sylaise’s husband.”

All of the people present give him very disturbing, very thorough once overs.

Bull waves, “Hi. I’m the husband.”

“The husband,” Everyone intones before exchanging looks and then turning back to Ellana.

“We’ve always needed someone good with computers,” Ghilan’nain says, “You’ve done well to bring in variety. I’m proud of you.”

“This only makes us stronger,” Andruil nods, contemplative as she puts a spoon full of meat and vegetables into one of the thin wrappers and starts folding it. “This expands our resources and our horizons. I approve.”

“I would climb him like a tree,” Sylaise says, “Also he’s already a father so you don’t have to do any biological hard labor, good job there. It would be very hard if you had to be pregnant and raise a baby on top of having Mahanon. He even comes prepackaged with children of his own. I love this. It’s in keeping with family tradition.”

“He also looks like he can hold things,” Jun says, “That’s a good thing to have. Hey - can I borrow you sometimes to move stuff? I’d ask my brothers but you’ve seen Dirthamen they have limbs like little sticks and honestly it doesn’t get much better than there. Also half of them are whiny babies.”

Bull figures that most people, compared to Jun, would have arms like twigs.

Jun isn’t especially tall but he cuts a very intimidating figure. Bull imagines he must look terrifying in a court room. Like he could bust his opponent’s head with his biceps.

“Don’t say yes to that,” Ellana says, “Jun didn’t clarify what stuff and sometimes means, I’m going to need you to write up a contract for that Jun, or at least define what you mean by those very vague terms.”

“That’s hurtful, niece, you think I would try and pull one over you and your husband?”

“You  _have_  pulled one over me before,” Ellana says, “I don’t think, I  _know_. And I’m not risking it. Anyway, were’s everybody else? I want to get the introductions out of the way before everyone is together in one room that way it’s easier and also simpler to manipulate perceptions. Also, is Uncle Elgar’nan here yet? I have to consult with Morrigan about how we’re going to get him to blow his lid this year and it’s a very small time frame of holidays to work on that.”


	187. Chapter 187

"If I die - “

“She means  _when_  right? She does know she isn’t immortal and eternal? She means  _when,”_  Sera says to Cole who just shrugs.

“Death is a choice in that you can see it as a personal occasion or an impersonal natural occurrence,” Cole says softly, scratching the side of his nose and then shrugging. “Death is also just a transition of energy and state. Condensation and evaporation aren’t death.”

“You know what, I don’t know why I even bother with you. Forget I even talked to you.”

“If I die,” Ellana continues to rasp out coughing as she stares mournfully up at the ceiling, “I want my urn filled with little plastic toys from capsule machines. I want future archeologists to have the most buck wild ride when they uncover my supposed remains.”

“And what did you want me to do with your ashes if not put them in an urn?” Bull asks as he gently coaxes her into sitting up so he can rub some soothing cream on her back underneath her shirt.

“Fuck all if I know, just be environmentally responsible; the important part is the urn full of capsule machine toys. The cuter or weirder the better. Spring load it, even. Just make it a completely crazy thing that makes them go absolutely insane trying to figure out how important I was or wasn’t,” Ellana says, turning to hack up what sounds like all of her internal organs and all the important liquids that go in or around them.

Everyone respectfully waits for her to be done before resuming the conversation.

Ellana finishes her hacking and coughing with a very small groan that signals the return to regular talking.

“Didn’t you want to be buried?” Sera asks. “Isn’t that the normal religious route for you?”

“If you bury me I want to be wrapped in a shroud of bio degradable cloth and also with zero burial goods but I want the most kick-ass monument with some sort of mysterious and ominous thing on it. Whatever Cole feels like saying at the time, I guess. And I also want secret clues that might suggest I’m not even buried there. You know what -  yeah, do that. I want my real body to be buried in an unmarked grave in an undisclosed and unrecorded location. I want a really crazy monument to myself erected in a regular graveyard.  _And also have the urn filled with capsule machine toys_. Give them the most wild ride possible.”

“That’s cute, babe, I’ll make sure to tell the lawyers when we work on tweaking the trust,” Bull says, “But in the mean time maybe go to sleep. Have you tried that? The person equivalent of turning the power on and off?”

“No one’s ever died from having a cold, at least not in this modern era of medicine and science,” Sera says. “

“The most important thing is that environmentally speaking I’m doing as little damage as possible while also creating a future test for future explorers and scientists.”

“Again, very nice, but maybe try going to sleep and seeing how that works out. You know. Instead of just death.”

“I miss my snoots. Why can’t I be with my snoots?”

“Your snakes are fine, Dorian’s delighted to be taking care of them. It’s good for them to socialize, he says,” Sera says, “And I’m here to make sure you - you know. Try to get better without pulling something crazy off. I don’t know why they chose me. I think it’s because I like to try and find UFO’s and government conspiracies in my spare time.”

“And what does that have to do with helping me look after Ellana?”

“Well. No offense, but like, almost all of us think she’s an alien or cryptid of some kind,” Sera says. “Also they figure I’m probably better at taking care of someone than you are. I don’t know why they think that, but they do.”

“Cute. Cole, are you sure you want to be here?” Bull says, passing his hand over Cole’s head, “You should lie down. You didn’t sleep last night with all that vomiting.”

“We’re both sick, so we should both be here together,” Cole says.

“You’re sick?” Sera’s head turns so fast that she almost falls off her chair. “ _You’ve been sick?_ ”

Cole nods and upon closer inspection he looks a more gray than usual or generally acceptable.

Sera stares at him, “Why are you sitting next to me? Get on that bed with sicko number one. If I get sick next it’s your fault, you know.”

“It’s too hot,” Cole murmurs but he gets up to slowly shuffle to the bed anyway. “I don’t want to stay in my room. It’s too quiet, I start to hear the sounds of outside my skin.”

“Do you talk that way because you’re feverish? Are you just sick  _all the time_?” Sera asks as Cole climbs onto the bed and then wiggles up towards the headboard, looking like a very pale worm in baggy clothing as he proceeds to lie down in a completely straight line, arms at his sides and legs straight out, face down on the bed. “Not on your face, dumbass. You’ll suffocate.”

“I miss my snoots,” Ellana says. “Tell Dorian to bring me back my snoots. Ask him if he can steal some snoots from the zoo. Or a lizard. Or a turtle. Ooooh one of the frogs. I love those frogs. They love me, too. I bet they miss me. They like me better than Dorian, and everyone knows it.

“I also miss your snakes,” Bull says, brushing some hair from her face. “I also miss all of the people present not being in this apartment and doing other more generally interesting things. We all miss stuff. It’s unfortunate but that’s life. Sera and I are going to go back to the living room and work some case files. Don’t yell if you need something. Sera stole some police radio’s so just - talk normally. Seriously,  _don’t yell_.”


	188. Chapter 188

It is very painful. As she slowly drags herself towards shore it hurts, everything - every lap of waves she had never really noticed or paid attention to before, every graze of sand and grain of salt, the foam and the cold night wind - hurts. It hurts so much that Lavellan can’t form perceptions of how things are meant to be. It hurts so much that it makes her annoyed, angry.

But it is not a surprise.

All magic - blue or black water - requires sacrifice.

He had warned her that it would hurt.

She had told him she knew that,  _obviously_.

She was going to trade one land for another - albeit temporarily - of course it would hurt.

Her brother’s scales are strange against her new flesh and the air hurts against her weak lungs, and the water burns its way down instead of out.

His mouth and neck remain underneath the water but she can tell that he’s cursing her out. His claws dig into her side, fragile and not-scaled - more pain - and he quickly lets her go. It’s up to her now, to make it to shore.

Neither of them are going to risk Mahanon getting beached because of her ideas. Better to lose one of them than both.

When he had found her, struggling her way towards the surface in the middle of the change - bleeding, great plumes of black water magic frothing from her eyes and her mouth as she pushed past pain that was quickly growing into something tangible and living inside of her - he had screamed. It was a wordless sound of rage.

He swam to her and put his arm around her and pushed them both to the water’s surface in time for her to gasp for air with her new lungs and the first breath had been so strange and foreign and wrong that she choked on it, even as her changing body gasped for more.

He cursed her for being foolish. He cursed her for being curious. He cursed at her for being selfish and reckless and he cursed her most of all for being bold enough to try.

But he was grieving the loss of her - the full knowledge she might never come back. He was grieving the loss of her - the complete knowledge that even if she does come back she would not be the same as the sister who left their cove this morning, their bed of sand and smooth stones and soft plants and their pretty glass and glittering shells.

So she could forgive his spite and the venomous snap of his tongue.

She could forgive him and give him his anger. And she could hold her own tongue, her own poison back as well.

So she did not tell him with her first lungfuls of air -  _if it were for Kaaras, you would do the same_.

Ellana grinds her teeth like pearls, like sand, like salt, like the great groaning and gnashing trenches, and she puts her hands down into the water, feels the sand and starts to pull her way on shore, fighting against the waves, the tide that pulls her back down and pushes her up and stings her nose and her eyes; as if the sea was spitting her out as Mahanon was, angry and sour at being turned away for something better.

She does not need to look to know that Mahanon is still as close as he dares get to shore, watching, waiting.

They both know he wouldn’t hesitate if she were to fall here - to haul himself over to her and drag them both into the sea and turn to the black water to change her back.

Ellana makes it to shore. She makes it over cold sand that sticks to her new skin and all the new flesh that she isn’t sure how to work.

She throws herself down, body heaving with exertion - cold and hot at the same time, trembling all over. She rolls onto her back and stares into the sky, beginning to lighten with dawn. The rocks of the shore dig into her vulnerable limbs, pointy and jagged where they have not yet been worn down.

“How will you find this two-leg of yours?” Mahanon had asked her as he swam them closer to land. She had not realized how far land was.

She had taken the Iron Bull there earlier from his ship, and it did not seem so far. Even with the storm going.

She didn’t have an answer for him, aside from the fact that she knew that he was crossing the sea to return to his shiver - his people.

They had an outpost somewhere along this shore.

She can remember their sign - an eye with strange lines coming out of it, and what she thinks is called a sword going straight down through it.

It shouldn’t be too hard to find. How many like it could there be?

Besides. How many like  _him_  could there be?

Their language was simple enough. She thinks she has enough to find him.

The challenge is actually  _moving_.

“When will you return to the sea?” Mahanon had asked her, close enough to the shore to smell the strange plants and not-sand of the land. Close enough to smell the strange difference in the air and taste the change in the wind. “When will you return to me?”

Solas had told her the black water would give her the body of someone who could be on land in proportion to how much salt she would give it in return. Ellana gave as much as she could without fainting.

She has one lunar cycle. A pittance, really.

“I will come to meet you here,” Mahanon had replied. “One lunar cycle, sister. I do not care what happens, you come home.”

He didn’t ask her why. Ellana appreciates that.

For the first time in a very long time Ellana is struck with how much she loves her brother. They’ve been together since they spawned. They’ve spent their entire lives with their tails curled together, their hair tangled like kelp, their gills flowing together like anemones, the bubbles of their breath interchangeable.

And he lets her go without question.

Ellana grinds her teeth and that is more pain, but it helps her focus as she slowly pushes herself up into sitting.

Mahanon is a suggestion of a shape - the color of his hair and scales erasing him in the gray dawn against the almost black-blue water and the gray sky and the gray rocks and the fog.

She wants to tell him about the Iron Bull and why she saved him and why she felt the need to go after him, onto shore, away from the sea and from Mahanon. She wants to tell him why she turned to the black water. She cannot. She doesn’t know why, not really.

 _It feels like the call of the sea_ , she wants to say. But how can she say that when she only just now has heard that call as she has just only now left it?

Ellana breathes, the water on her skin cooling and causing the skin to bump and tighten.

She breathes with her mouth and her nose, and her gills remain stubbornly closed and constricted.

Ellana stands.

She has one lunar cycle. She cannot waste it on  _why_.


	189. Chapter 189

Developing story, listeners, I’ve heard that there has been a stand off between the Secret Police and Young Man Alistair, over the existence of Wardens.

As you all know, it is forbidden by law and blood in Haven to acknowledge the existence of Wardens, all of whom are called Commander. It is forbidden in part because there can be no other  _Commander_  in Haven as Haven has long cast aside such barbaric militaristic terms in favor of more democratic ones such as  _Inquisitor_  and  _Champion_  and  _Devourer_  and  _Herald_. It is also forbidden because it would make you wonder  _what_  these Wardens are Commanding.

The Wardens have congregated around Young Man Alistair’s home as he is the only one willing to risk acknowledging them. He has often been heard spouting such nonsense as  _but they’re real_ , and  _they’re really cool guys_ , and  _they laugh at all my jokes come on they aren’t bad people_ , and even  _Warden likes to pet my dog anything that likes to pet dogs can’t be bad_.

Silly, silly naive Young Man Alistair. We grew up together you know. Not in the exact same circles and stuff, but I always thought he was a bit strange.

Young Man Alistair has climbed up to the top of Red Jenny’s Records and Rumors and is yelling through a bull horn about the existence of Wardens and the injustice of their existence being outlawed in Haven.

The Secret Police Chief, the Iron Bull is yelling back at him to get down before he hurts himself and to turn himself over for punishment for acknowledging the existence of Wardens.

We have word from Sera, owner of Red Jenny’s Records and Rumors. Sera, what do things look like on your side?

“Bullshit. Can I say that on the radio? It’s shit, Maxwell. How’m I supposed to do any real business like this? Police and Alistair yelling right outside of my building? It’s like they don’t want me to sell things. No one’s coming in. How the hell am I supposed to get rid of all these musical pants if no one comes in?”

Musical pants?

“Yeah, they’re the latest thing. They’re great. I have three pairs: casual, work out, and formal. If you scratch your nails over them just the right way they make ripping sounds that kind of sound like music. What’s your inseam? I’ll save you a pair.”

Cool! Thanks! Wait - but what’s your opinion on what’s going on? Aside from that it’s bad for business.

“Well. I think Alistair’s got a point. Go tune in to what he’s yelling about now. I mean, when he says it like that, he’s kind of right. Right? Hey we close at never today, so hurry up and pick up your pants so I can go home. I’ve got chocolate bars to melt into chocolate coins to exchange for my monthly allotted cup of guts.”

Will do!

Alright listeners, I’ve got the station’s new intern Voth outside Red Jenny’s Records and Rumors. Voth, what’s Alistair arguing now? Put him on!

“ I mean  _look!_ -  _librarian!”_

 _“Librarian? Where?_   _Guns out! Guns out!_ ”

Listeners, Young Man Alistair has called out a warning that there is a librarian present - I repeat, there is a librarian in the vicinity of Red Jenny’s Records and Rumors. Stay clear. Return to your homes and close and bar your doors and windows and open skylights. Pray to the silent God that this will end with minimum bloodshed and loss of life. We do not yet know the tag of this loose librarian. Let us all hope that it is not one of the more -  _well versed_.

The Secret Police are on the scene and they will make sure to yell in warning until the proper librarian wrangling authorities arrive. Secret Police Chief the Iron Bull has unholstered his gun. This  means that things are going to be very bureaucratic and there will be lots of paperwork to sign.

“No! I mean. It’s stupid that I’m not allowed to talk about the Warden. I love the Warden. I love all the Wardens! I mean - who are you to talk? You’re dating a  _librarian_  and everyone knows those are ten times as lethal!”

“I am not dating a librarian, I’ve submitted the  _paperwork_  to date a librarian. That’s got to be approved by the City Council and the Mayor. Hell, Alistair, give a guy a heart attack. I thought one got loose.”

Quick aside listeners, for those of you who have not been keeping up to date with the romance program that is slid in through your window every other day by the Hawke siblings, Secret Police Chief the Iron Bull and Senior Librarian Ellana Lavellan have filled out the paperwork to start dating each other. It is currently pending review by City Council and Mayor Malika Cadash. The two do appear to have excellent chemistry together, but one has to consider if it is worth the risk of allowing a Senior Librarian of such strength and power as Ellana Lavellan out of the library confines.

Oh, listeners, it looks like we have someone calling in! It’s -  _ugh._  It’s  _Cullen Rutherford_ , my cousins  _husband,_ father of my adorable niece and nephew.

What is it,  _Cullen_? I’m in the middle of reporting on some serious business right now.

“I’m sorry to bother you while you’re doing your show, Maxwell. It’s just that I think that Alistair has a fair point. Why are we ignoring the Wardens when they’ve done so much to help us in the past? I mean, it is a little worrisome that we don’t know what the Commander commands, but overall I think they mean well. This is something that I’ve thinking about for a long time and I believe it’s something that we as a community should - “

Oh, would you look at the time, it looks like it’s time to cut to a sponsor break. Bye, Cullen.

Today’s show is sponsored by  _BOOKS_.

Burn them. Stack them up to make tables and chairs or hold up your bed or to fence in your accidental demon summoning. So many uses! Just don’t read them!


	190. Chapter 190

Bull is busy chatting with Evelyn when someone runs into him. This is not unusual. Things run into Bull all the time. Bull lives in a house full of small children all under the age of sixteen, if he isn’t bumped or jostled in some way at least once a day it’s not a real day and he’s probably asleep which means he needs to wake up because he’s probably forgetting to do something. And considering that he’s at sports day at his kid’s elementary school he figures he’s probably going to get run into a lot.

Children, when hyped up on competition and not being in class and being watched by their parents, tend to get a bit more uncoordinated than usual.

So Bull pays very little attention to it, especially considering it didn’t even hurt.

And then there’s small fingers digging into his thigh and yanking hard, Bull grimaces and looks down and Mahanon is staring up at him with those huge weirdly solemn eyes of his.

“Yes, Mahanon?” Bull asks. It’s a little strange to be seeing the boy in this context. Normally it’s at his own house or at the store or at Ellana’s house, occasionally the park or the library. Strangely enough, Bull’s never actually seen Mahanon at school before.

Mahanon looks briefly uncertain before mulishly tugging on his pants again and says, “You’re the only one I could find.”

Bull’s eyebrows raise, “Only one of what?”

“Parent,” Mahanon says sullenly and holds up a slip of paper to him.

“Ah, that’s for one of the class games,” Evelyn explains as Bull looks at the piece of paper that does, indeed, say  _parent_  on it. “Students pick pieces of paper out of a box and they have to find the thing on the paper and bring it back to the courtyard.”

Bull’s eyebrows raise higher, “Where’s your mom?”

Bull is far from the  _only parent here._ Mahanon’s own mother must be somewhere around here. Knowing her, she’d have her phone out with three extra batteries for when it runs low.

Mahanon’s mulish look twists into something that borderlines tears before it untwists itself back into stubbornness, “Not here. I only have you.”

Something very strange kicks itself awake in Bull’s chest. Not strange in that he’s never felt it before. He’s felt that specific something kick itself around his guts and his chest plenty of times before.

He felt it when he got called into Krem’s first school because his teacher was a transphobic piece of shit. He felt it when he heard that Grim was being ignored in class because no one was paying attention to his signs. He felt it when Dalish came home crying and dirty because some idiot teenagers thought they’d feel big picking on someone smaller than them. He felt it when Rocky came home after the science fair and locked himself in his room and pretended to listen to the radio super loud to avoid telling Bull that he didn’t place because the school’s judges didn’t think his project was  _science enough_.

Bull has felt this very specific feeling plenty of times before. The only strange thing is that  _this isn’t one of his kids_.

Except maybe he is, because that thing that’s kicking up a storm in Bull’s chest seems to think so.

Bull goes with it and holds out his hand, “I’ll talk to you later, Evelyn. Come on, Mahanon. I hope I count. You probably don’t know this but there are a lot of people at this school who don’t think I count as a parent.”

“You’re  _here_ ,” Mahanon says and there’s that kick in Bull’s chest again and parts of him turn hot and furious on Ellana. It’s unfair, he knows. She isn’t here to tell her side of the story. And he knows that she loves her son so much that it drives her to sleeplessnes and anxiety and actual fevers sometimes with worry.

There is a reason she is not here today, Bull reminds himself, forcing down the anger in his chest. You can’t judge without knowing the whole situation.

-

“I am missing my son’s sports day for this,” Ellana says softly. Not a threat. A statement. A fact.

“Pray tell, is this not important enough to warrant your attention?” Elgar’nan asks. He doesn’t even  _look at her_. “There will be other events in your child’s life. He won’t die  _tomorrow_.”

Dad’s and Aunt Mythal both reaching to put their hands on hers are the only thing that stops her from shoving away from the long table and marching out of this room. Not before throwing a punch that she definitely won’t regret.

Elgar’nan is a  _douche_  and he’s had a punch coming for a very, very long time, if not more than just a punch.

Her knuckles itch for a violence she didn’t think they remembered. It’s been a very, very long time since she was a frightened little girl. Father had always told her that there were better weapons than fists.

Words, time, the destruction of ego, to name a few.

That’s why they became lawyers, after all. Everyone in this family has a profound and deep taste for the  _ironic_  and the  _manipulative._

 _“_ We are assembled here today - all of us - because there are matters of import that we must discuss,” Elgar’nan says. “Matters that are important to our business and our holdings. Is your livelihood not important enough, niece?”

Ellana grinds her teeth and glares at the table in front of her.

Neither Dad nor Aunt Mythal have let go of her arms.

“Get on with it,” Sylaise says on Father’s other side. “Ellana isn’t the only one who doesn’t want to be here. This isn’t even our mess to clean up.”

Ellana hears Andruil shifting in her seat across the table and when she glances up Andruil is glaring at her sister, lip twitching into a snarl.

“They don’t even work in our sector, how was I supposed to know that they’d lash out like petty children?”  Andruil snaps. “The Titan Group doesn’t have their hands in any businesses close to ours. They’re a supply group that occasionally lobbies for ecological protections and reforms.”

“Did you think that they’d have forgotten all the bullshit you pulled?” Falon’din says, idly writing or drawing something down in his notebook. “I’m honestly a little surprised they waited this long.”

“We need a plan to make sure that nothing is amiss,” Jun says, “Though I don’t see why  _all of us need to be present_. Some of us  _aren’t even part of the firm_.”

Jun glares at Elgar’nan. Elgar’nan ignores him.

“If we were going to bicker like it’s a family dinner,” Morrigan says, sounding just as angry as Ellana is, “You could have just sent me the footnotes via text or email or some other annoying method where I could save so much time by throwing it out. Instead I am here and I have to  _listen to this in real time_. Get to the point. Jun is right, some of us don’t even work at the main firm. Some of us aren’t even  _lawyers_.”

Ellana glances towards Morrigan. Morrigan’s eyes meet hers and they share a moment of sympathy for each other. Keiran has always been something of a sickly boy and Morrigan is loathe to leave him unexpectedly.

It isn’t often that she and her cousin are on the exact same page, but Ellana is pleased to know that she has at least one real ally in this room.

Aunt Mythal and Dad of course understand her, but they also made her come here to start with. So.

“Let’s start with this,” Elgar’nan says and clicks something on his computer, bringing something up on the projector on the far wall. “Will someone explain to me how the  _fuck_  the head of the Titan group got his hands on this information to send to me  _this morning_?”


	191. Chapter 191

“Hey, can you - sorry, can you bring Mahanon to the parking lot?”

Bull resists the urge to turn and stare at his phone because he knows it wont do him any good. You can’t see a person’s face on a phone.

The thing that kicks in his chest, that’s been slowly dusting at his ribs with heat and anger, threatens to spark alive again. He reigns it in.

“Why are you in the parking lot?”  Instead of here, with your son?

“It’s a long story. I can’t - I can’t go in there, though. I - please? Please bring him out here? He isn’t - well, his phone is probably in his bag and he’s not answering. Please, the Iron Bull. I just want to see him. Please? I’m in the south parking lot. All the way in the back. I parked away from the school, so it’s just me.”

Ellana shouldn’t be begging to see her son.

“Yeah, I’ll bring him. Give us a minute to get over there.”

“ _Thank you_.”

Bull almost thought he’d be bringing the kid home with them.

“Hey,” Bull says gently, voice cutting through the chatter of his kids as they play around with napkins and candy wrappers on the picnic blanket Bull had brought. “Mahanon.”

Mahanon looks up at him, a small smear of chocolate on the side of his mouth that Bull carefully reaches out and wipes off, “Hey kiddo, your mom’s here to pick you up.”

Mahanon’s eyes quickly dart around, looking, brows drawing downward and mouth opening in protest when he doesn’t see her.

“She’s in the parking lot,” Bull says, “Come on, I’ll bring you over. Let’s get your stuff together, alright?”

Mahanon nods slowly, face folding up as if he now remembers that he’s mad at his mother. Bull helps Mahanon put all this things together in his school bag, collecting Mahanon’s small lunch box and watching as Krem and Mahanon figured out who was taking what toys home. Considering that the two boys see each other so often Bull figures that it doesn’t quite matter who’s home the toy starts off in as it changes hands so often.

“Okay,” Mahanon says, carefully tying his sneakers, bag slung over his shoulder, “I’m ready.”

“Alright, you guys stay here,” Bull says, “Ms. Trevelyan knows to keep an eye on you.”

Krem groans even as Skinner laughs at him. Dalish is off with one of her friends. They aren’t the only family left. Bull’s signed up to help put away tents and stuff. He figures he should probably do some nice parent volunteer work on the occasion. And he thinks that physical labor is probably the best thing he can volunteer. Maybe the PTA parents would stop looking at him like he’s got the Blight or something.

Mahanon’s hand slips into his, fingers skinny but strong as he grasps at two of Bull’s fingers, swinging his hand a little.

She really is  _all the way_  at the end of the parking lot. But from that spot she can probably catch a small glimpse of the school’s field and the playground.

There’s something off, though, something strange -

Mahanon lets go of Bull’s hand and runs towards her.

Ellana kneels down, arms open but Mahanon stops before he gets within reaching distance. Bull sees why a moment later.

“What happened to you?” Bull asks. Mahanon didn’t say why Ellana wasn’t there with him, that his mom hadn’t told him.

Bull is abruptly upset that Ellana didn’t show up for an entirely different reason.

If Ellana had come to Mahanon’s sports day, he doesn’t think she’d look like she got beat.

“It’s not important,” Ellana says, holding her hands out to Mahanon. “Mahanon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t make it. I tried to get out sooner - and I got here about two hours ago, but I couldn’t. I watched. I saw your relay race, baby. You did so good!”

Mahanon stares at his mother, and then slowly whispers, “ _Mama?_ ”

Ellana’s face struggles to hold up a smile for multiple reasons.

Bull kneels down next to her, and gently puts his hand on her shoulder. There’s a scarf wound up around her neck and fluffed up so she can duck her chin down to hide the lower half of her face. And her hair is a bit of a mess but it’s down so she could easily hide the rest of it if she just turned her head.

“Ellana,” Bull says and Ellana shakes her head.

“You should see the other guy,” She says, grimacing a little. Bull can see a fist sized bruise right at her jaw.

“ _Mama_ ,” Mahanon repeats, voice shaking terribly, “Mama, who did this?”

Part of Bull feels guilty for hearing Mahanon’s voice warble like that, for hearing Mahanon call Ellana  _mama_  when he normally calls her mom or mother. He feels like an intruder.

Another part of him, a part that he’s quickly growing used to surprising him today, is  _furious_. Another part of him is furious that Ellana Lavellan missed Mahanon’s sports day to get  _beat up_  and was forced to  _hide at the edge of school grounds_  to try and catch a glimpse of her son because if she walked into the sports day looking like just got beat up and in a fight there’d be no fucking end to it.

That same part stings that Ellana won’t tell him. Maybe can’t even tell him.

He likes to think that they’re friends, though he supposes that single parent confidants might not stretch that far.

“It doesn’t matter, baby,” Ellana says, running her hand over Mahanon’s light hair, “I took care of it. I wish I took care of it faster.”

“Do you need me to take you home?” Bull asks.

Ellana shakes her head, “No. Really. Things are alright. I just - Mahanon, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Mahanon’s eyes search his mother’s face and then he quietly says, “I won the my race.”

Ellana smiles, “I saw. All your practice paid off!”

Mahanon’s eyes are shiny and he sniffs, voice slowly raising higher as his lower lip wobbles, “I tried really hard and I almost tripped but I made it and I beat Krem, too.”

Ellana nods and Mahanon takes her hands and quickly darts in to plaster himself to her.

Ellana wraps her arms around him and picks him up, grunting a little at the effort.

She meets his eye and shakes her head at the many, many questions there.

 _Later_  she mouths, casting a significant glance at the school and then at the boy in her arms.

Bull nods, and then reaches out and touches his hand to Mahanon’s head, “You did good today, kid.”

Mahanon nods into his mother’s shoulder as she turns around and starts to walk towards the exit of the parking lot.


	192. Chapter 192

“Quite frankly,” Lavellan says, “It is both arrogance and poor foresight for one to think that absolving the Inquisition by force would stop me from proceeding with completing the task that a great majority of Thedas has somewhat strong-armed me into doing for them. Unless there’s someone else - human, not a mage, probably from Orlais - who’s mysteriously gained their own Anchor to close rifts. Have my wildest prayers been answered? Has that happened?”

“No, Inquisitor,” Josephine says, “That has not happened. You are, that we know of, still the only one capable of closing rifts.”

“Shame,” Lavellan sighs, “When is this trial meant to take place?”

“The beginning of summer, your excellency, at Halamshiral.”

Lavellan’s eyebrow slowly raises up, “I would say that there’s a certain symbolism in them trying to forcibly break apart a Dalish-led Inquisition at the sight of one of the worst massacres of elves in  _recent_  history - ignoring all previous - and one of my people’s most sensitive losses, but honestly Orlais doesn’t have anywhere better.”

“Perhaps they wouldn’t be so eager to try and do us damage if you could show them a touch of civility,” Leliana says, “Granted they haven’t done much to earn it, but there are sayings about the higher road and such.”

“Human sayings,” Lavellan replies, “Said to coddle and protect those in the wrong. Very well, I suppose I can’t make do with sending a stand in?”

“No, your excellency,” Josephine says, “We could try but I somehow doubt that would go over well.”

“And who else is on this panel of judges?”

“Representatives from Ferelden,” Leliana says, “Who are fully supportive of the Inquisition’s continued efforts.”

“Alistair Theirin has always had a good head on his shoulders and a fair nightingale at his ear,” Lavellan remarks and Leliana dips her head.

“High praise, Inquisitor.”

“Simple fact,” Lavellan shrugs. “I leave the two of you to manage the arrangements. I doubt that my council in the Dales will be pleased with me showing up for a  _judgement_  among my so-called peers. Can we appeal to have others come to stand with the Inquisition? Antiva? The Free Marchers?”

“I will send correspondences,” Josephine says, “But perhaps it would help to send those through the embassies of the Dales?”

“You send yours and I’ll send mine,” Lavellan says, “I trust the two of you to handle it. In the mean time, reports. Tell me what I have missed while I was catching up on my duties to the Dales?”

“The Chargers returned for a brief period, they rode out three days ago. They would have waited but Sutherland’s crew needed assistance handling a series of thefts along the King’s Highway. The area is still Blighted and weak,” Leliana says. “Ferelden cannot keep enough guards along the entire highway. It is a relatively easy task, I am certain they will return soon enough. The Iron Bull requested that we pass this along.”

Leliana hands Lavellan a bit of paper, folded long.

Lavellan flicks it open, mouth twitching upwards before she tucks it into her sleeve, “That man has too much free time.”

“May I ask?”

“Chess,” Lavellan says, shaking her head, “He sent me his chess moves from our ongoing game. He still insists he’s winning. Little does he know that I’m only letting him believe that.”

-

“This is, Commander, perhaps your worst idea to date. Worse even than partnering with the Qun to force the old Council to acknowledge your fairly earned reign.”

“Your opinion has been  _noted_  but it does not change what I am going to do,” Lavellan says. “Hunter, do you not have troops to train? Requisitions to complete? Assessments to oversee? I fail to understand how you can persistently dog my steps for hours on end  _every day_  to let me know of your displeasure with the way I have chosen to lead our people.”

The man following behind her clicks his tongue hard and she barely resists rolling her eyes at him.

“Someone has to,” Hunter Lavellan replies, “If I did not then no one would. At least, no one you would allow to live for longer than a week.”

“You assume I will permit this kind of behavior from you indefinitely.”

She turns and catches Hunter Lavellan glaring at her. She smiles as beatifically as she can just to see his scowl deepen.

“You ought not to scowl like that, Hunter. You’ll ruin your face if you do and that is perhaps the most forgivable thing about you.”

Hunter Lavellan bares his teeth in his equivalent of her smile, “Thank you,  _your excellency_ , for your faulty opinion. As we all know, you have terrible aesthetics, you  _surrealist_.”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with the fantastic and reimagined.”

Hunter Lavellan breathes out a long, hard sigh, “ _Sister_.”

“ _Hunter_.”

“Most Holy.”

“Yes?”

“Send someone else to go oversee the human’s squabble. I do not understand why you must go yourself. You have people to do this for you. You have people who want to do this for you. There is no reason why you must go personally. The Divine of the human Chantry did not even ask for that. She just asked for us to  _host_  their Conclave.”

“The humans do not acknowledge anyone other than the prime leader of a nation or state as a person of power,” She says, “I would send you. I would send one of our ambassadors or one of our courtiers. I would send one of the council members. But the humans do not understand these people as being to me in power. They are very near sighted. I must go to give this Conclave credence, or it will fall apart. If anything, the humans will be too wary of accidentally killing me and starting a war they are not ready to handle.”

“Or they will kill you to start a war that they cannot handle in order to bind together their fractured selves. Sister. Do not do this.”

“Brother,” Ellana turns and catches Mahanon’s chin with her hand, tracing the familiar lines of his vallaslin with her thumb, “I am not your sister any longer. I am the Most Holy of the Dales and  _your commanding officer_. I must go. Do not ask me to stay. This is my duty.”

“Your duty is here,” Mahanon says, curling his hand around her wrist, voice softening, “Your duty is to stay safe and to stay alive and to lead our people. Let the humans destroy each other.”

“And when they are done destroying each other and come to us? And when Tevinter sees the ravished south and sets their eyes on conquest?”

“There is always the Qun.”

“The Qun is a temporary partner who will not stay with us. We cannot lean on them or count on them favorably.”

“We have survived worse wars.”

“Are you not tired of just surviving? Let us live. And if it means doing favors for the humans in order to finally spread out beyond our borders safely and feel the world as safe again, I am willing to do the human Chantry this favor.”


	193. Chapter 193

“Hey, Inquisitor. Nice night?”

“Varric,” Lavellan says slowly, easing up and then fully dissipating the spell in her free hand, “What are you doing in my sleeping chamber?”

“So,” Varric says, laughing nervously, “How would one go about the process of getting diplomatic protection and sanctuary in the Dales?”

Lavellan eyes him as she sets her candle down on the wooden dresser and crosses her arms, “What did you do and to who, Varric?”

Varric grimaces. And well - he figures he can trust the Most Holy of the Dales, right? She probably won’t turn over what he said in confidence - turn him over.

“Hypothetically,” Varric says lowly, “If I hypothetically did something to circumvent Pentaghast and, let’s say,  _deceive her_  for a great length of time, do you think I could hide out in the Dales until her fury passes?”

“What kind of deception, Varric?” Lavellan pauses and then her mouth quirks up, “And you assume that Cassandra’s fury can pass instead of just  _build_. It’s best to get it over with.”

“I’d like to live, I mean. That’s sort of the point of the whole Inquisition, right? Making sure we all don’t die due to unnatural causes?”

“Varric, what did you do?” Lavellan asks with a resigned sigh, casting a longing look towards her bed. “It is late, there is a very long day ahead of all of us tomorrow, and I - for one - find there are very few greater joys than sinking into your bed after a very trying day and ignoring that it must all start over again when you next wake.”

“I’ve been keeping contact with Hawke and Hawke is currently hiding out in one of Skyhold’s busted up towers and looking for an audience with you,” Varric says. She did say to just get it over with, right? And Lavellan isn’t exactly the same type of person Cassandra is, but Varric is pretty sure that the straightforward path with her is the most appreciated. He imagines that being the leader of the Dales would be annoying enough that she’d appreciate any blunt straightforwardness.

Lavellan’s eyes are sharp when she turns back to look at him, a very slow turning of her head, “Repeat that.”

And that is a definite order from the Commander of the Emerald Knights.

“Hawke is here and wants to talk to you,” Varric says. “And Cassandra Pengathast is definitely going to find out and I will definitely need to not be here when she does.”

Lavellan studies him for what feels like a very long time. Varric feels like day old bread left out in a market stall being presented to a very intimidating customer.

“For one thing, I cannot provide you sanctuary. It is not within my powers,” Lavellan says.

“It  _isn’t_?” Varric gapes.

“No, sanctuary is provided on a case by case basis with certain criteria that a majority vote of the Elder Council decides after a case is presented to them. My only role is to provide either my testimony which the Council can and has ignored. I also have power in case of a tie. I could  _present_  your case to the Council but that would take too long and I doubt that they’d agree anyway. My power, contrary to what most of you believe, is not absolute. The land of the Dales isn’t an absolute monarchy, Varric. That is how you lead to corruption and faulty chains of command.”

“That’s actually pretty fascinating but in the mean time - for one thing?”

“For another, Varric,” Lavellan looks almost fond, “You are very theatric, as expected from a world famous charlatan and rogue. I would love to host you in the Dales when this is over. I imagine you would be quite a popular visitor who’s attention is much sought after. Varric, one would think that you  _enjoy_  baiting Cassandra. I may be a poor judge of such things, but there are better ways to make friends, I should think.”

Varric sputters, “This is not how I make friends.”

“Are you absolutely certain about that?”

“I am going to be murdered in plain view of everyone within probably two days, given how shitty Hawke is at staying out of people’s attention, and you’re just telling me that I’m bad at making friends.”

-

“Lots of reading material?” Bull asks, tilting his chin at the stacks of official looking letters at Lavellan’s side.

“I could say the same for you,” Lavellan says, eyeing the books and paper under Bull’s arm. “You no longer work for the Qun and yet your workload has only increased.”

“Leliana is putting me to work,” Bull says.

“Good,” Lavellan nods, waving for him to join her at the table she’s commandeered for herself in the library. “It is not the most…preferred place to work on official matters of state, but no one will bother me here. The sanctity of libraries, I think, is respected across all cultures.”

“Tell that to Pavus, he seems to think that this one is garbage.”

“Dorian has a very high standard and I look forward to seeing how he will reshape this space into one of his own image,” Lavellan says, “The libraries of Tevinter are very impressive, after all.”

Bull gives her a considering look. Lavellan’s smile is a lightning flash. He decides not to ask the obvious question.

“My seconds in command are very upset,” Lavellan says, motioning at the letter in front of her. “The Elder Council is most disturbed the reports that return to them and they wish for me to return immediately.”

“They do realize that the future of the entire world hinges on you doing work  _over here_ , right?”

“Mm,” Lavellan hums, eyes narrowing at the letter, “Yes but they also seem to think that our people can handle this entirely without the Inquisition. We are a very self reliant people. We are also a very insular and stubborn peoples. I had plans to slowly work on that over time, but this - “ Lavellan waves her hand, the Anchor flashing between her fingers, “ - has thrown a sparkler into the mix and now they are panicking like children who’ve lost hold of their mother’s skirts.”

“That’s a colorful image,” Bull says, setting up his notebook and the pages of letters Leliana wants him to decode and locations she wants him to try and suss out based on clues within the stolen letters. She also wants him to forge a few with minor Inquisition approved changes. Forgery isn’t his strong suit, but he’s pretty sure he could do a passable - by Leliana’s standards - job until he gets back into the swing of it. “And what do your seconds say?”

“They say to leave it to them and to not even think of going back unless it is to mount a full on assault on Corypheus and his little band of glory-dreamers,” Lavellan says. “They are, of course, concerned, but at least they understand that there is a bigger picture that our nation will not survive if we turn inwards.”


	194. Chapter 194

Lavellan looks unfairly otherworldly as she submerges herself into the motel’s rectangular pool. They’re surrounded on all sides by square windows. Some with lights, some without. There’s what should be understood as well and truly sad patches of grass that generously might be considered to be  _greenery_  at each corner of pool and a single lone palm tree. There are six plastic beach chairs.

Bull throws a scratchy white motel blanket over it and sits down, watching as Lavellan sits, an ink cloud contained, at the bottom of the shallow end.

The lights from the pool cast her as something out of a child’s story.

They are not something out of a child’s story.

Lavellan surfaces moments later, just her eyes over the edge of the water, the rest of her a billowing mass of shadow-hair and strange rippling limbs distorted by light and water and the strange feeling that only motel’s off of long stretches of highway have.

“You aren’t coming in?” She asks.

Bull gestures to the open cut on his forearm, “I’d rather not risk it.”

Lavellan hums. She doesn’t have a bathing suit, but she has some shorts and an old t-shirt.

His attention takes turns between watching her swim around the pool - she looks like a squid, all that shadow for hair and the way that water drags its fingers through it - and looking up at the sky. This far away from the cities you can actually some stars.

“Sera and Dorian should be back with food in about an hour,” Bull says. Because half an hour is how far they were away from the nearest decent food place.

The sounds of the water lathing against the concrete sides of the pool, the slap of it against Lavellan’s skin, and the hum of the ice machine are the only responses he gets. Involuntary as they are.

“I want to put my mouth on you.”

Bull slowly transfers his gaze from the sky to the pool, even if his attention was already on the person in it.

Lavellan’s arms are propped up on the side closest to him, her chin resting on them and her dark hair plastered to her back and the sides of her face.

“I want to put my mouth on yours,” Lavellan says, “As if I am closing a wound. As if I was closing two sides of a cut and stitching them together and trying to help them heal into something whole and continuous, despite the missing pieces of flesh. I want to put my mouth on you like a scar.”

Bull swallows and breathes in deep, “Why?”

“Because we almost died,” Lavellan says, “Because the fact that we almost died isn’t going to stop either of us from continuing with almost dying tomorrow or the year after or the decade after that. Because when you die I know it will tear part of me away but I also know a part of you will still be with me. Because when I die I want to have some part of me torn and left behind with you. Because I am frightened of you leaving my life and there being nothing left at all.”

Despite the end of Corypheus, their jobs have only gotten that much more dangerous, that much more demanding. There’s no end to it. There never will be. Intelligence and secrecy are forms of warfare that have no end. Bull knows this very well.

“Do you want to marry me?” Bull asks, skipping ahead a few steps to where he knows she’ll eventually end up.

Lavellan slowly tilts her head from one side to the next. He sees what could be a blink as she considers this.

Legally it would tie them together in an incredibly undeniable way. Unmistakeable way.

But neither one of them are the sort for ceremonies like this. Neither one of them are the sort of person who buys into the concept as it is understood by the vast and general public.

“Yes,” Lavellan finally says. There’s a flash of light that illuminates her face clearer than the pool’s underwater lights - it must be the headlights of a car driving into the motel lot. There’s a small hallway that opens up to the front lot and he remembers that Varric took Cole to try and find a decent diner for breakfast tomorrow.

Bull swallows softly and nods. Lavellan watches him for a few more seconds and in the distance they can hear the sounds of gravel, doors opening and closing, a car being locked.

She pushes away from the edge of the pool as footsteps come closer, falling through the water to brace her feet against concrete and push herself deeper into the water, hair spiraling around her like a mist.

“Hey, Tiny, guess what we found?  _Local delicacies_ ,” Varric says, “They put peanut butter and cereal into their pancakes. We have to eat there tomorrow because it’s the only place that looks decent. But hey - we can have a party about it, right?”

Bull glances over as the gate to the pool area opens with a protesting squeak of rusted metal. Cole immediately takes off his shoes and starts to roll up his pant legs, hopping on one foot and then the other as he makes his way towards the edge.

“Watch it,” Bull calls out and Cole immediately sits down to finish the job before crawling over to the side and sticking his feet in. Lavellan swims up to him, hands on his knees as she surfaces - trying to coax him in, probably.

“No comment on the obvious intestinal disaster?” Varric asks as he takes the plastic chair next to Bull’s. The bleached and dried out plastic groans in protest.

“I think I was just proposed to,” Bull says.

Varric stares at him. “Well, shit.”

Bull shrugs.

“You know that Pavus and Pentaghast are going to be all over this, right? That’s ignoring the obvious of Josephine and Leliana. Vivienne might throw her hat in this too if she thinks the rest of them aren’t on the right track for her perfect vision.”

“Better them than us.”

If they do have an actual ceremony Bull figures it would be more for their friends and companions than their own personal interest.

 _I want to put my mouth on yours_ , Lavellan’s voice whispers like the lapping of water,  _I want to put my mouth on you like a scar_.

“I think I’m in shock, a little,” Bull admits. “That could also be the pain killers at work.”

Varric nods sympathetically, “Let’s just keep this one quiet until we’re not in the middle of nowhere, yeah?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Varric holds up a plastic bag, “I was going to save this for dinner, but it looks like you might need it now.”

Bull holds out his hand and Varric passes over a barely chilled can of beer. Better than nothing.

“To your marriage,” Varric says, taking one out for himself and holding up to Bull, hitting his can against Bull’s. “May the dramatic people in our lives have mercy.”


	195. Chapter 195

“Why him?” Mahanon asks. He’s squirmed down the bed until only his eyes show above the blanket, and the tips of his fingers as he clutches the fabric. Ellana smooths her hand over the wisps of hair over his forehead.

She looks around the room, mostly entirely packed. It’s not like they can’t ever come back, and she and Mahanon both think that he’d be a touch lonely if they took  _everything_  out of the house with them.

She’s a little worried about Mahanon having to learn how to share a room. And also having a twin bed. She told Dad not to get Mahanon a full, but he’s intent on spoiling Mahanon rotten. Her only solace is that so far it doesn’t seem to be working and Mahanon is still a kind and generous boy. It must be genetics, really.

“How do you mean?” She asks, lying down over the covers, head resting on her elbow as she strokes his hair. It’s a big day tomorrow. Somehow it seems very - monumental. She and Mahanon have stayed over at the Iron Bull’s house plenty of times and a lot of their belongings are already there. They’ve done groceries, cooked meals, cleaned the house, done yard work there.

And yet this is the final step into a threshold Ellana is not certain of.

She is certain that she is going in a direction she wants to go. She is certain that she’s going to be very happy following this path and that Mahanon will be too.

She is not certain of the name of it, though she is beginning to understand the shape and color of it.

“Why do you like him best?” Mahanon asks. “Why is he Dad?”

It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. It will never stop hurting, she thinks. The guilt and the shame of replacing her brother and his wife in Mahanon’s life.

Theron died when Mahanon was only a few months old, Mahanon’s mother following soon after. And then Lyssa died too.

Somehow it seems so unfair that Ellana is the only one left.

But it doesn’t hurt anymore, when he calls her mom. And it - for a strange reason - didn’t hurt the same way, to the same degree, in the same places, when Mahanon calls the Iron Bull  _dad_.

“Well, you know,” Ellana says, thinking about the question carefully. “I saw those arms. Those big arms and I was just gone.”

Mahanon pulls the blanket down enough that she can see he’s scrunched up his nose and is making a face. Ellana pinches his nose and smiles.

“And I just thought, yes. Those are the arms of a man who can cook. And I know how much you love to eat. And was I wrong?”

“No,” Mahanon says, voice sounding hilarious with his nose pinched even as he kicks his little legs under the blankets, relinquishing his hold on them to swat at her hand. She lets go and he rolls over onto his side and stretches his arms out for her. She draws him close and tucks his head underneath her chin. “But you could’ve been  _wrong_.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“ _Hmph_.”

There are so many reasons why the Iron Bull. Most of them do not have names or words that she’s figured out how to put together yet - like the shape of the future they are going to.

It’s because she can’t do this without him, she thinks. She could. Ellana could raise Mahanon and take care of him and she  _would do it_. There is no question of whether she can or can’t, she  _would do it_. She just wouldn’t - Ellana doesn’t think she would have done as well as she has so far. Without the Iron Bull’s help and advice, she doesn’t think she would be able to take care of him the way he deserves. Without his support, she doesn’t think she would have gotten this far without causing Mahanon some sort of lasting hurt.

And -

She doesn’t want to do this without him.

Ellana wants to raise Mahanon with the Iron Bull and Krem and Dalish and Rocky and Stitches and Skinner and Grim. She wants them together. She wants that home that Iron Bull has made and opened to her and her son and she wants him to enjoy it because homes like those are so rare and beautiful.

She can live without him. She can live without the family and the warmth he has shown her. She could live with her son in the house of her father and they would be fine.

But she doesn’t have to.

-

They had decided that it would be best to bring Cole home while the rest of the children were away.

They were all excited for a new sibling. Bull’s children were used to the comings and goings of other children and Mahanon was curious about Cole in general.

But Bull had quietly pointed out that it Cole had been isolated for a while and that based on the way he acted when he went with her to talk to him it wouldn’t be a good idea for the house to be full of other strangers.

Cole is not a bad kid. Cole is a  _dangerous_  kid but he is more dangerous to himself than to others. Bull understands this and he can understand why Ellana couldn’t leave him be.

Bull opens the door and Ellana steps in first, Cole quietly following like a ghost. Bull promised to wait outside.

Cole has time to learn who the real boss of the house is, but for now he’s more comfortable with his mind thinking along stereotypes and that’s fine.

The house seems eerie without seven other children running around it. Even when the kids are quiet they’re loud in Bull’s conscience.

Bull sits on the front porch, hands folded in his lap as he waits for a final verdict.

It was decided that while Rocky is closer to Cole in age, he’s probably not quiet enough to give Cole peace of mind. Rocky’s a good kid, but he’s loud and exuberant in his own ways and Cole is -  _not_. Rocky is moving in with Stitches and Grim is moving in with Krem. Mahanon and Cole will share.

Grim is quiet by default until you get to know him and then he can be very loud and while he is considerate, it’s probably best that they don’t put Cole and the kid with extreme anxiety together in the same room to sleep.

Mahanon is quiet, but Mahanon can also be firm with his boundaries. He’s younger than Cole but overall he’s the best temperament for now. If things get uncomfortable for the boys, they’ll figure something out. They always do.

It’s about an hour later when the two finish their tour of the house. Bull wonders what Ellana was showing the kid that it took so long. It’s not that big of a house.

“So?” He hears her as she comes back down the stairs, “What do you think, Cole?”

Cole’s answer is too soft, murmured and hurried - stumbling over syllables -, for Bull to hear clearly.

Ellana’s response though is clear with its audible smile.

“Do you feel up to meeting the rest of them, then? They’re very excited to meet you.”


	196. Chapter 196

“Do you want him, Ellana?”

She runs and ducks, hiding in the warm ground, burying herself into sand and gravel. She is a mouse, digging a burrow. There is no point in hiding, she knows this. The Dream has always been his domain, even if he can no longer bring things out of it. She’s never had to hide before - she’s never tried hiding before. But she knows deep in herself - as she is part of the Dream, though distanced and made strange by tangibility and the permanence that comes with it - that she cannot run or hide from him. Not in the Dream. Not ever.

Part of her keens to return to him, to undo her words, to beg forgiveness, to be erased with dawn again. Part of her wants to be forgotten, erased, remade - the nature of a dream. But there are other parts of her that she has been growing, that others have been nurturing, that Solas himself put in her and encouraged even if it wasn’t on purpose.

And those parts howl for her to run, to hide, to evade, to outlast.

So she does. She is a mouse among the dark undulation of the Dream’s earth. He is the voice of shadows, but she is moving, moving, moving.

“Do you want to be his lover? The soft arms and breast he sinks into? Do you want to be the person who warms him, who comforts him? Who takes his mouth?”

No, is the answer that springs to her mind immediately. She doesn’t and Solas knows that. He’s just toying with her.

Ellana had never had the capacity to imagine that he could be so cruel to her. Is she not his thousandth daughter? The one he dreamed so vehemently for so many years? Is she not the only one of his dreams to ever come forward and  _dare_?

Is she not the apex of his ability, the consolidation of his ambition?  _Is she not him, made perfect and tolerable?_

“Or do you want him to be your protector, Ellana? Do you wish for someone to shield you from the world, to make it soft for you? Do you want him to hurt for you?”

Again, no.

Ellana is a snake as she slices her way through dark roots and tunnels. Once this place was like a home to her. Once it was her womb. Once it was her grave.

Do the ghosts of the other versions of herself still linger here? Are they still here? Do they disagree with her?

It doesn’t matter if they did, but she would like to have some support. She would have liked to have a sister. Even if that sister was herself, a single night older.

“Tell me, Ellana. What is it that you want from the Iron Bull? He is made of flesh and bone, science and time. You are none of those things. There is nothing you can give each other. It will only hurt you. Come back to me. Come back to the Dream, Ellana. It is the world you are made for, made from. You will fade without it. Already you have forgotten so much.”

Ellana is a rabbit, bursting out of the burrow and racing across grass that is too green underneath a clear sky that burns blue.

“What do you want, Ellana? Tell me. It will soon be in my power to give it to you. I would not deny you.”

 _Liar_ , Ellana thinks.

She just  _wants_. For she is Solas, she is Solas dreamed into the flavor and texture the world can understand and accept, if he knows it or not. He was not dreaming a companion to talk to, he was not dreaming someone to teach. Solas was not dreaming a child. He was dreaming a version of himself that could exist in the world and not be rebelled against.

Ellana wants. She just  _wants_. There is no - direction to this wanting. She wants the Iron Bull. She does not know  _how_  she wants him. She can barely wrap her mind around  _why_  she wants him. She just  _wants him_. In whatever way she can be near him, she would have him.

“To want without direction is dangerous and short-sighted,” Solas says.

 _You would know_.

“What is the world you shape for him, Ellana?”

 _One where I remain in it for as long as he would wish me there_.

“What is your place, your role? What is your purpose?”

_What is yours?_

“You cannot run from these questions forever,” Solas continues, voice in her ear, shadow in the sky, the rumble underneath her paws. “They are questions you should be asking yourself. They are questions others will ask of you, not just me. They are questions that you are already untangling in your heart. I hope that you see them true, little dream.”

Hope and longing sting in her chest as she becomes two legs and two arms and a mouth again. The most impractical form for running.

She turns around and there he stands.

“Father,” She whispers. Neither of them are out of breath. The Dreamer and the Dream, the longest hunt in the history of consciousness.

“Da’len,” He says, arms folded behind his back. His face is - not unreadable. But it is closed and distant. Polite. Once he had looked at her with love, with warmth, with pride. Once he had looked at her with fear. Once he had looked at her with rage. “What is it that you want?”

“I don’t know,” Ellana answers. “I don’t know what I want.”

In the Dream she has no power. She can say what she wants freely. It is not the same as when she is awake and tangible.

 _“_ I hope you find out,” Solas says, “I hope you find that answer. I hope it gives you something to strive for, to want. There is too much in you to languish in the bland repetitive state of content.”

The hope stings in her chest. The longing swells.

“Thank you.”

Solas nods at her, stepping back and turning away, “The fate of someone content with the world and their lot in it is a fate I would not wish on anyone, let alone  _you_. Find your peace, my dream, but never stop seeking to improve upon it.”


	197. Chapter 197

"I don’t understand,” Evelyn says, frustration bleeding into her voice as she runs a hand through her hair, pulling at it a little. “The only people who would know about where I’ve had you go is  _me_  and  _Cullen_. Not even Leliana knows. We only talked about it here, in my  _house_. How did they  _find you_?”

“Your house must be bugged,  _obviously_ ,” Ellana replies, dabbing at the corner of Bull’s mouth with a cotton ball. “Hold still you big, baby. It’s worse if you talk so shut up. No, I know you didn’t say anything. But we’re married, I could sense you about to say something. Something probably dumb but incredibly pithy. I appreciate it.  _No, don’t smile_ , oh my god. No wonder you’re covered in scars, I bet you pull them open on purpose, don’t you?”

“Our house is not bugged,” Cullen says, “We do a routine sweep every week and a deep check once a month or so.”

“It’s probably somewhere you never look,” Ellana says.

“ _Like_?” Evelyn asks, “Considering that we have Leliana doing this sweep too?”

Ellana and Bull exchange fond but somewhat chagrined glances. Evelyn hopes that she and Cullen someday reach that level of mental and silent communion. It’s unfair how the two of them use it for mischief and to hide possibly illegal things from the rest of the general population of the world.

Though Evelyn supposes that it’s a good thing that most of their communication is in those looks because it does save the rest of them having to hear a constant undercurrent of scathing and headache inducing commentary.

“Alright, fine, but only because your mouth is too pretty to get messed up more,” Ellana says, fondly caressing Bull’s hand. Not the one with the splint. Ellana and the Iron Bull both turn to look at Cullen and Evelyn looking like a very fond couple staring at some cute dogs or something. “Have you checked your spice rack recently?”

“The spice rack.”

“The spice rack,” Ellana and the Iron Bull both nod. The Iron Bull a bit more carefully and slower.

Cullen and Evelyn stare at each other and then Cullen slowly turns around to inspect their spice rack next to the stove. It’s a very pretty thing. Dorian gave it to them as a housewarming gift.

“ _Fuck.”_ Cullen says a few moments of rummaging around later.

Evelyn quickly crosses the kitchen to join him and she also swears.

There is indeed a small camera nestled in between the Paprika and red chili flakes.

“How did  - ?” Cullen says, turning over his shoulder to Ellana and the Iron Bull.

The two have now moved on to staring lovingly into each other’s eyes. It’s a little sickening. They’ve even leaned in a little.

“I didn’t even know you were a super spy when we were dating and then married,” Ellana sighs wistfully. “Imagine all the things we could have done when we were both in the prime of our unsavory careers?  _Cara mia_.”

Bull smiles and Ellana quickly smacks him upside the head.

“Ok, listen, I love you,  _but listen._  That face? No more scarring? Ok? Ok?  _Ok?_  Keep it together, I know you can. You do poker with Josephine once a month. And sometimes she even lets you win.”

Evelyn clears her throat. Loudly.

“Oh, right. Well, if  _I_ was going to plant a bug it’d be somewhere you don’t normally look but also somewhere you’re usually around,” Ellana says. “And, no offense, but you two white bread fools wouldn’t know what a real spice was if it bit you in the ass.”

“Savage,” The Iron Bull murmurs and then quickly pushes his chair away, holding his hands up, “ _S’rry_.”

Ellana points a finger at him, “Seriously. You’re on thin ice, Mister Lavellan.”

-

“You killed my brother.”

It’s the first time she’s ever said it out loud. To anyone. Ever. Not even to herself, she’s said it before.

She’s thought it. Silently. Privately. Bitterly. Spitefully.

But she’s never said it.

He looks at her with surprise and disappointment. “No, Ellana. You killed my son.”

She loathes how he twists the words. They are not the same - Fen’Harel’s son. Ellana’s brother. They are not the same person.

“You forced him,” Ellana says, “You forced him to choose death.”

“Your brother died for you, Ellana. But that is only because you would not do the same for him.”

Laughter burns up her chest like heartburn. Like vomit. Like the crying and the shock and the screaming and the cursing as she held her brother’s body in her arms, the blood still warm - steaming, even, in the freezer room they were in.

Like her eyes as she stared up at  _their father_  who  _made them make this choice_.

“No, he died for your fucking lessons,” Ellana says. “You know nothing of people, of choices. Of teaching. I regret ever calling you father. Teacher. I regret ever being called  _yours_.”

“Your regrets change nothing, daughter.”

“No. I am not your daughter. I am nothing. I left. Remember?  _Don’t come back_ , you said.  _Dirthara-ma_ , you cursed me.”

“You remember.”

Sometimes Ellana wakes up and she doesn’t know where she is. The Iron Bull’s never asked her about it. She’s never asked him about the nights where he jolts awake and walks the house like a ghost.

Sometimes if Ellana’s eyes move over a room too quickly she’ll see something that isn’t there, make something out of something else. Sometimes, if Ellana does something incredibly short-sighted like paint her nails she becomes another person. She becomes the Dread Wolf’s daughter.

“How could I forget?” She asks.

 _That_  is something she’s said out loud.  _How do I forget_? She asks herself that in the bathroom with the sink or the shower on and she’s staring into a mirror because she can remember the tattoos before she had them done over.  _How do I forget_? She asks herself when she finds herself with damp knees in the dirt in the garden having dug a hole far too deep for whatever plant she was aiming to give a home to, the muscles of her back and neck aching.  _How do I forget_? She asks herself when she finds herself searching out pale blonde hair in a crowd.

“Tell me, have you learned the lesson, Ellana? Has the world away from your home helped you?”

“Ir tel’him, Solas.You told me that without you I could be nothing, that my purpose was with you and you alone. That  _our_  purpose was something greater than anything I could find here. That I could not exist as something outside of you and the world you built for us. Ma harel lasal. Perhaps it is  _you_  who does not exist outside of that world populated of the three of us and your following. I have learned many things, Solas. It is true, there are things I could not learn, that you had unworked out of me. But - god have mercy on you - you will wish that I learned to forgive, most of all by the time I have run you down.”


	198. Chapter 198

“My god,” Sylaise says as she’s showing Ellana and Bull to their room. He didn’t realize that the farm would have such a huge fucking house. With multiple wings.  _And adjoining buildings_. It’s more of a country manor than a  _farm_  and he thinks he should’ve pressed Ellana for more details about her rich family sooner. “Those are  _a chef’s hands_.”

Sylaise is looking directly at him and at  _his_  hands because he’s carrying most of the suitcases for himself and the kids. Ellana tried to help but Sylaise gave her a bunch of bedding and as a result Bull can’t even see the woman past stacks of hand made quilts.

“Why are we stopping?” Ellana says, voice muffled by the numerous thick quilts. “Are we there? I don’t hear a door opening.”

“Ellana Lavellan, you didn’t tell me that your husband had  _chef’s hands_ ,” Sylaise says.

Mahanon from behind him, lets out a loud and fed up groan. “ _That’s not real_.”

Ellana starts laughing after a moment, “I told you, Mahanon. I’m not the only one who sees it.”

“That’s not a real thing!”

“On the contrary, it is definitely a real thing. It’s at least one half of the reason why I married your Uncle Jun, despite your Uncle Elgar’nan’s many whining protests. Elgar’nan wouldn’t know what a good man was if one turned him around and - “

“ _He’s eleven_.”

“So? Don’t be a prude, Ellana. With a father like yours I wouldn’t expect it from you. Anyway, your room is here. You’ll have your father on the same wing but that’s all. You, the Iron Bull. As soon as you put those bags down you come and see me in the kitchen. You are officially being requisitioned for meal duty. Jun can make the others suffer through manual labor - we all know no one else in this family does enough of it.”

“But I thought  _I was_  on meal duty,” Ellana says. Bull can hear the pout.

“Do I get a say in this?”

“Not with those hands,” Sylaise says, “Here. Your room. If you had told me your husband had chef’s hands maybe I would’ve put you somewhere nicer. Maybe next time you’ll think about keeping your husband a secret from me.”

“He wasn’t a secret, you were invited to the wedding and everything.”

“And you invited  _Andruil_  knowing damn well the two of us were ready to rewrite wills and living trusts and be done with it.”

“She didn’t go either, though.”

“That isn’t the point and you know it. Some of us have to have some dignity and principles,” Sylaise sniffs, waving them into the room. Mahanon and Grim immediately squeeze past them to flop on the mattress. Brats.

Bull carefully puts their suitcases down. Carefully because for all he knows these floors were done by hand and the wood was like, harvested from their personal forest and cut by Jun’s hands and installed personally.

Ellana puts down the quilts on the mattress with a grunt and says, “Oh. Now that I can see, I can tell that you were cross with me at the time that these arrangements were being made. You put me in the  _dandelion_  room, Aunt Sylaise? What did I do to wrong you this time?”

Sylaise shoos Mahanon and Grim off the bed, Mahanon grabs Grim’s wrist and runs him out onto a balcony and starts to enthusiastically point and explain what can be seen from this angle.

The two women make quick work of dividing up the quilts and various bedding that goes with it into neat piles.

This room, Dalish and Skinner, Mahanon Grim and Cole, and Stitches, Krem, and Rocky. They’ve had tighter fits before.

Bull’s just amazed that there’s actually room for the entire brood. And it is a brood.

“At the time,” Sylaise begins as Bull watches the two women snap the fitted sheet open between them with quick flicks of their wrists, quickly and efficiently putting it on the mattress, smoothing it out, and creating some of the crispest corners Bull’s ever seen on a bed, “You’d declined my invitation for spring bread making and had said you were just going to do it in your own house. If I had known your husband had arms and hands like that I would’ve understood immediately why you didn’t feel it necessary to come here for proper bread. I thought you had gotten lazy or perhaps  _sided with Andruil_.”

“I would never, not over spring bread,” Ellana says. “Aunt Sylaise, you’ve been holding onto that all this time? I’m incredibly sorry.”

“Well, it’s too late to move you  _now_ ,” Sylaise says as they put on the second sheet and then the quilt. And Bull had always thought that Ellana was weirdly good at housekeeping in that the house is always clean but he never actually sees her clean it.

Now he knows.

“You’re on kitchen duty with me,” Sylaise says, rounding onto Bull.

“So…I don’t get a say in this? Because I’m pretty sure your husband was considering how to best put me to work.”

“Chef’s hands,” Sylaise and Ellana say, shaking their heads. “Chef’s hands trump over all. Can’t be wasted.”

Sylaise goes on to say, “Besides. In my house? I get final say. And I say you’re cooking with me.”

“Impressive,” Bull says and then steps back out into the hall, “Brats, get your stuff. You weren’t seriously going to just leave it with me and be running in and out of this room  _all weekend_  were you?”

There’s a vague chorus of  _no’s_  and  _ok_ ’sand  _coming_.

“May we ride the horses?” Mahanon says from the balcony. “Grim says he misses riding horses.”

“Grim, you’ve never - “ Bull starts, and then stops, because again. Probably a runaway rich-kid. No one knows.

“After lunch,” Sylaise says, “Have Ghilan’nain take you. She’s supposed to hitch up the wagon anyway.”

“Wagon?” Bull asks Ellana who’s quickly putting pillows into pillow cases.

“What else are we to put the harvest in?”


	199. Chapter 199

"I am going to make this quite frank as blood loss, plotting, and general pain all around has made me run rather low on patience that has been tried for the past three years almost constantly,” Lavellan says, lowering herself with grace anyone would envy especially considering that the woman woke up from surgery not even two hours ago. The feat of her grace is made even more admirable when one considers that this surgery was to further amputate an incredible and awful mess of a magically corroded limb that’s left her with deep residual magical scarring. She imperiously waves Josephine off to the side even as the Ambassador stares at her with wide eyes. “This is no longer a trial about  _me_  or the  _Inquisition_. This is no longer a farce that I am conceding to out of the  _grace of my nature_. This is about me telling you,  _Celene specifically_ , that your little tantrum is going to end  _today_  because there are bigger things for me to handle than your country’s delicate little feelings.”

This, of course, causes a general uproar, but Lavellan pushes on, ignoring it.

The only thing stopping Bull from going over to her and stopping this himself - she’s right about the blood loss - is the fact that he knows that Lavellan, Most Holy of the Dales, and Commander of the Emerald Knights, the Heart of the People, is about to absolutely destroy Empress Celene of Orlais in front of King Alistair of Ferelden, two Ambassadors from Antiva, a rather decent chunk of Free Marcher nobility, and representatives from Nevarra and minor city-states along the Anderfels.

“Let me start by stating the obvious. I, Commander and Most Holy of the Dales, was almost  _assassinated_  under your care,  _Celene,_ ” Lavellan sneers, “I was  _summoned here_  by  _you_  to discuss  _your_  concerns, during which time  _I was almost murdered_. It doesn’t matter that the perpetrators were the Qun, or some other rebel faction. It happened  _in your halls_.  _That_  is  _your_  responsibility. I came in here,  _a literal savior to this entire continent_  and you repay it by  _allowing_  this sort of harm to come to me. You’ve broken hospitality, Celene. Or perhaps worse, you’ve  _allowed_  it to be broken. This, on its own, is more than enough for a declaration of war. After all, your countrymen have been bickering among each other and spoiling for one against my people with less of an excuse.”

Lavellan’s eyes are dark glass on a pale face as silence descends.

Empress Celene is just as bloodless underneath her mask, her skin a gray sort of pallor Bull would expect from someone who’d just lost a limb.

“You threaten me in my halls over a mistake that was not possible to foresee or prevent. That is an unfair and biased assessment that ignores many greater workings at play.”

Lavellan’s smile is the picture of someone who’s won and is very, very satisfied as she raises a dark eyebrow.

“That doesn’t matter under rules of hospitality. Those rules aren’t  _fair_ , they’re  _just_. I came here in good faith. I did not have to come here, mind you. There is not a single person in this room who would have the authority to  _summon_ the Heart of the Dales to appear for  _judgement_  before them. Just like, I would imagine, no one here has the authority to summon  _you_  or King Alistair for judgement. Besides, Celene. Once it became clear that there was danger here? You kept going. In this you are not entirely to blame, I concede. You are not the only one standing and calling for judgement upon the Inquisition. There are three of you on this panel who have held their tongues.”

“I,” Lavellan continues softly into the silence that hangs in the room like a noose, “Do not, and have  _never_ , cared for this Inquisition that was deemed to be placed upon my shoulders. I have led it as  _neutrally_  as possible, a fact that you would be welcome to argue at a later date, because it is a responsibility made by necessity. At best it has been an entertaining and challenging exercise if patience and tolerance, at worst it has been an almost literal weight hanging around my neck and strangling me into complete and utter mindlessness. However during this farce of a trial you have tried to  _imply_  if not outright state that I have been manipulating the entirety of this  _Andrastian organization_  to greater benefit the Dales. If that were so, Celene, I can assure you that you would not be sitting there in your silk. And I was willing to sit here and permit this waste of time if only to deal with things publicly and with some note of finality. In light of recent events I find that there is no longer the luxury of time for such bureaucracy. In light of recent events, I find that it is no longer safe nor respectable for me to remain here. In light of recent events, I find that  _I have no reason at all to entertain your concerns when my nation has been provoked in a clear and undeniable act of war perpetrated on Orlesian soil by an unknown foreign entity_.”

Lavellan leans forward. It would almost be a purely aggressive move move and one that has Celene unconsciously leaning back, if Bull didn’t know for a fact that the woman is in incredible pain and is running on nothing but pure rage and anticipatory violence to keep her upright and coherent. He can appreciate that sort of spite.

“Now I am telling you,  _all of you_ , that I am walking out of that door. I am leaving with my Knights and my Hunters and my Blades. I am taking the Inquisition back to Skyhold along the way to begin the process of deeply expunging its much swelled ranks. I am returning to the Dales. And I am going to deal with the clear and very present threat that now faces my nation as well as  _every other nation,_  like an adult with priorities instead of politely pretending to care about a small little nation’s hurt national pride and long-lasting grudge about holding a  _promise_. And if you dare to stand in my way I  _will wake the woods and we will walk_. This was an act of war _._  It was not, specifically, an act of war by Orlais though we all assembled here know it would be well within my rights to say it is. An act of war that so many of you here today have wanted since the founding of the Dales, but one you have not been prepared for. One that we of the Dales have been holding off but planning on defending against for lifetimes. We have  _never forgotten_. But it is  _not_  and I will not say it is one unless I am suitably provoked to saying so. We all know that this is from a far greater threat than any single one of us is capable of handling. So I urge all of us here to return to our homes and to begin planning on how we ought to be handling this together with some measure of cohesion instead of scrambling at each other’s throats for the slightest drop of shallow and temporary superiority. I want all of you here today to ask yourselves, are you and your people, prepared to face war with the Dales over an Inquisition that has only acted for Thedas’ greater good, or are you going to stand down and consider the events of the past few days and what they mean for the greater state of our combined nations?”

The chair screeches as Lavellan stands and the room rises into an uproar with it. Bull shoulders his way to her, even as her Knights close in around her, equally reinforced by Inquisition soldiers. They open for him and close him into their ranks like water.

“A touch heavy handed, perhaps,” Lavellan muses. He puts his arm around her in the pretense of protecting her from stares and words. She sags against his side and he can feel how hot her skin burns through her clothes. He imagines he can smell the fever on her.

“I’m fairly certain that they wouldn’t have taken it any other way,” Bull says. “They needed that. Something to cut through all the paper.”

Lavellan hums, more of a grunt of effort really. Bull squeezes her against his side and they’re out into the harsh sun.

“If they actually listen instead of allowing their pride to get in the way there may be some hope for them yet,” Lavellan says, “It is a shame that I am not within my normal mental faculties. I feel as though I would have deeply enjoyed that much more if I were. And that I would handled it with more finesse and less blunt instrument-like brutality.”

“I can’t speak for others, but I deeply enjoyed it.”

“Mmm, you enjoy everything I do.”

“Untrue, I deeply  _don’t_  enjoy it when you almost die.”


	200. Chapter 200

“I'm cutting this down to the bones,” Lavellan says as she tosses her travel cloak at a servant standing by the door, who catches it and bows out of the room with the practiced ease of someone long used to Lavellan and her almost casual disregard for protocol, “Advisors, meet my Triumvirate, Triumvirate, meet my Advisors. And this the Iron Bull. Be civil,  _Hunter_.”

A man with pale hair and a sharp mouth scowls but crosses his arms and glances at them before following after Lavellan into the council room.

“Don’t mind him,” A woman, also with pale hair, but with round, almost sleepy eyes says, “Mahanon’s like that to everyone, especially when he’s around the Most Holy of the Dales. Come. The Most Esteemed writes about the three of you often.”

The woman cuts a sly look at the Iron Bull and pointedly turns away and walks into the room after the other two.

There's a third man inside, sprawled out on some cushions on the floor and grinning up at them, waving a hand, “Hail and well met, as they say.”

“A single show of respect is all that’s ever asked of you, and yet you fail every single time to meet that incredibly low standard, Mahariel. Stand up when the Most Holy enters a room,” Mahanon sneers, kicking at Mahariel as he passes.

Mahariel catches Mahanon’s ankle and flutters his lashes, “Call me Theron, dont make me beg, my love.”

“I continue to fail to see what the Most Holy sees in you,” Mahanon replies, shaking Mahariel off and moving on to stand in front of a long, heavy wooden desk that is covered in neat stacks of wooden scroll tubes and flat paper.

“An attempt at pretending to be civilized people,” Lavellan says, dry as she shrugs off her riding coat and throws that onto the chair behind the desk.

All three of the other elves in the room immediately stare with an incredibly unnerving focus on the bandaged stump of Lavellan’s arm. Mahariel stands up and the three elves stand in front of Lavellan’s desk and  _stare_.

Lavellan lowers herself into her seat and waves the one arm she does have at them, “The one one the far left is Mahanon, my second in command over the Knights, Hunters, and Blades and former Master of Blades. I meant it when I said be civil,  _Mahanon_. Theron Mahariel is my Speaker, he presides over court affairs, various official events and practices, as well as overall general peacekeeping. He would be, I suppose, my head Ambassador, Josephine. And Lyna Mahariel is my Hearthkeeper, she watches and maintains domestic affairs such as food stores, land distribution, general welfare, et cetera, et cetera. The Triumvirate is not quite as clean cut as the three of you.”

Lavellan waves between the three standing in front of her, “All three of them coordinate between all matters, not a single one of them is absolute in their domain. In example, all three of them practice various bard arts. Theron tends to control gossip and control public image, but Lyna can start and stop rumors as well as manipulate land distribution to suit our needs. Mahanon can send spies where he pleases, but Theron has secret informants all over. I expect that at first it will be difficult for the six of you to coordinate with one another given cultural differences and expectations. I trust that some sort of understanding will be worked out sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, most Holy,” The three elves chime.

Cullen nods, “Yes, Inquisitor.”

“It will be interesting, to be sure,” Leliana says.

Josephine smiles, “Everything starts somewhere. At least there is some common ground.”

Lavellan nods, “To business. What news?”

The members of the Triumvirate fall into attention, arms behind their backs and feet planted firmly, chins up.

“We have begun to pull out suspected spies of Fen’Harel - Solas,” Theron says, “It is not easy, but general public opinion is in our favor.”

“And the truth of the matter?”

“Concealed between those present. The Elder Council is unaware.”

“As are the High Priests, Most Holy,” Lyna adds on, “They continue to adhere to our edda’s. Many pray and leave offerings for you at the main shrine. There has been some unrest, concerning that. I believe it would be most beneficial for you to make a public appearance, especially since it is common knowledge that you have returned within our borders.”

Theron shifts on the balls of his feet, “Many, Most Holy, worry you returned to die.”

“Does it look that way to you?” Lavellan raises an eyebrow. “Continue with your report. What of the general attitude of the people?”

“The expected unrest,” Mahanon says, “Many want war and proper retribution. They are willing to fight for you, Commander.”

Lavellan taps her fingers on the wood and turns to Cullen, “What is the general feeling you get from our soldiers, Cullen? They are aware that there are traitors in our ranks, spies. If Inquisition forces were to begin working with the armies of the Dales in full would there be possible repercussions?”

“Honestly, Inquisitor, I believe that we do need the power but it may be a hard touch to the ego,” Cullen admits, “Many would think that the Inquisition is enough and that it should be the armies of the Dales that are subsumed into the army of the Inquisition I understand it would not be a true and real merge that is being suggested. However…”

“It would look as though the armies of the Dales are taking the lead,” Lyna finishes, “And it would, Most Holy, possibly cause unrest on our side as well. There are many who wish to march on Orlais, and have wanted that since before news of your near-assassination took place.”

“But will they remain on my side once it is revealed that it was the doing of Fen’Harel?” Lavellan asks, “And will they continue to remain on my side once his goals are made clear?”

“It depends,” Theron says slowly, “On how you spin this gold for them.

“I have a few ideas,” Lavellan says, “I believe that many would agree with me in saying that it does not matter the source of our gods. Once they became gods they were no longer the people they were. They became myths, more than themselves. Their identities were no longer their own. Their lives are ours to shape and dictate as we see fit. Such is the life of a public servant.”

“Yes, that is the general belief and attitude,” Lyna says, “But the harder struggle would be to avoid getting people to follow his cause out of desire and want.”

“Josephine and Bull have ideas for that,” Lavellan says, gesturing for Josephine to come forward. “I personally think that they are quite clever, however I have been somewhat out of touch with current emotional climes and do need your opinion before we proceed. Josephine, please.”

“The Inquisitor has mentioned that Solas has had spies within the Dales before, and that you have often caught them in acts of what could be considered treason or sabotage,” Josephine says, “And that his agents have been a destabilizing force for years. This could win public opinion, after all - it was Solas who. Who cut away the Anchor.”

“Fen’Harel tried to murder the Most Holy of the Dales,” Bull says, “After taking away a source of immense power for his own use. Go to your priests and use this as proof that Lavellan is in the right as a guard against negative forces and that her reign is watched over by a higher and greater good. Combine that with the idolization and transformation of historical figures into separate ideas and concepts and you’ll be good to go.”

“I like him,” Lyna says, “Can I have him?”

“No, your tastes aren’t compatible,” Lavellan says. “It would ultimately be very disappointing for you both in the end and I would rather spare you both the awkwardness since we will be working in close conjunction together for some time. Perhaps after we deal with the homicidal idealist with grand delusions of penance.”

“Excellent, can  _I_  have him?” Theron asks, batting his eyelashes at Bull with an exaggerated wink.

“ _No_ ,” Lavellan says, “I forbid it, he’s too good for you.”

“The best thing about you becoming the Commander of the Dales and Most Holy of the People is that you never had to marry  _him_ ,” Mahanon says and then casts Bull a considering glance, “I will take him.”

Lavellan scowls, “Absolutely not. What would you even want him for?”

“What do  _you_  want him for?” Mahanon fires back and Lavellan closes her eyes with a look of pure exasperation that screams for patience.

“Out with it. Whatever it is you’re just snapping at the bit to say, since you see much more exuberant than your usual self. Just spit it out. We don’t have time for you to be petty."

“You should not have allowed yourself to be summoned like a dog,” Mahanon immediately replies, flatly and pointed. Lavellan narrows her eyes at him. Theron and Lyna both grimace. Mahanon stares straight back at Lavellan with an unwavering gaze. “You know it. I know it. We all, in this entire country know it. If only that were your first mistake.”

Cullen’s eyes widen. Josephine blinks rapidly. Leliana’s eyes just slide between the two.

Bull stares at the side of Mahanon’s head and wonders how the fuck he got this far without losing it, knowing Lavellan’s temper.

“I,” Lavellan says slowly breathing out as she spreads her palm flat on the table, “Am going to  _forgive_  your complete and utter idiotic lack of common sense in speaking to me that way when we are neither speaking in privacy or without my specific leave for you to drop formality, out of the goodness of my  _fucking heart_.”

Theron and Lyna groan, shoulders sagging as they stare upwards at the ceiling.

“They couldn’t wait to get this done for  _after,_ ” Theron sighs.

Lyna turns around and goes to sit on the cushions, snagging Josephine and Leliana by the arms, “Might as well sit. This is going to take a while. Mahanon’s been itching for this for  _months_.”

“Right, want a drink? I don’t think we have anything quite strong enough to carry us through this piss contest,” Theron says dryly as he gestures towards a liquor cabinet lined up on the far wall, “But I’m sure it counts that we try.”

“Ah yes, the goodness of your heart that’s caused you to  _leave your country for almost four consecutive years_ ,” Mahanon plows on, still standing at attention but practically glaring down his nose at Lavellan who’s curled her shoulders in her chair like someone ready to lunge. “The goodness of your heart that caused you to leave the false empress on the throne of Orlais. Do you mean that specific goodness of your heart, Commander?”

“Is it like this all the time?” Bull asks as he sits down on one of the cushions, accepting a crystal glass of something that smells faintly of dandelions from Theron.

“Oh you should see them around the holidays,” Theron laughs, “It gets explosive, really.”

“And this is - permitted,” Leliana says, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Not exactly,” Lyna admits. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s actually not,” Theron says.

“No,” Lyna sighs, raising her glass up, “It isn’t. Cheers, I suppose, to the return of the Most Holy, sounding in perfect form.”

“Really,” Theron says, giving the others pitying looks as the not-quite shouting match continues, “It is fine. That’s just how they show - affection.”

“Affection,” Bull repeats.

“Some siblings play a sport together,” Lyna says, “Some siblings share stories and write letters. Some of them share a hobby or craft. Some of them even hug each other.”

“And then there’s the  _Lavellan twins_ ,” Theron says, “Mahanon is right, it’s very lucky that Ellana became the Most Holy and got our engagement annulled. I don’t think I would have survived marrying into that clan.”

“Cousin,” Lyna sighs shaking her head as she takes another generous drink of out of her crystal goblet, “You wouldn’t have survived the courtship announcement, let alone made it to the actual ceremony.”


	201. Chapter 201

“Lavellan,” Bull says as he eyes one of the three chessboards in between them.

“Ellana,” The woman interrupts, giving him a tired but overall pleased look through her lashes as she deftly puts him in check on the rightmost board.  _Again_. Bull just hopes she stays aggressive on that one and misses the trap he’s working on building on the far left. “It is going to get confusing if you continue to call me Lavellan. After all, there are many people here named Lavellan, among them one of my top advisors. I permit the use of my first name. From you.”

It’s been almost four years and the Iron Bull has only ever heard her first name when it is preceded immediately by her clan name and then her multitude of titles, each more impressive than the next.

“Ellana,” Bull says and she nods, pleased, re-crossing her legs underneath the linen sheets as she leans forward to examine the middle board. It’s still a toss-up how that one can go, but Bull is putting  a lot of confidence in not losing the left board and pushing a draw.

Mid-way through Ellana and Mahanon’s impressive not-quite shouting match, and mid-way through a very good bottle of wine that Theron was pouring liberally, an old gray-haired woman had thrown open the doors to Ellana’s private office and started pointing fingers and yelling, causing all the elves in the room to blanche impressively.

“ _You!_ ” The woman, who Bull now knows to be the Master of Mending and Ellana’s personal physician, “What in  _Sylaise’ name are you doing here?_  You’ve been gone for almost three years and almost dead as of the past week and your first thought was to come and yell at your older brother?”

“My  _younger brother. He’s my younger brother, you senile old bat_ ,” Ellana had tried to cut in but the woman had already rounded onto Mahanon.

“And  _you!_  The three of you!” The woman turned on them, “Getting drunk off your ass in the middle of the day! Just allowing this to happen! Not a single one of you with the common sense to  _send her to the mender_  instead you immediately set in for scheming and politics! Unbelievable. Absolutely the heights of absurdity. Enough! Most Holy  _I commend you to the halls of restoration this instant._  Do not  _make me call your mother_.”

Which had lead to an even more impressive shouting match even as Ellana was physically herded out of the room by a woman who looked three times her age, while the woman at the same time was deftly smacking, reprimanding, pinching, chiding, and lecturing the other three into hunched shoulders and sullen glances.

“The old biddy was the Master of Mending before the previous Heart of the People was  _born_ ,” Theron had said, “I’m pretty sure she’s an inherited object from the time of Shartan.”

“I feel so sorry for her apprentices, they’ll never get a chance at being Master of Mending,” Lyna had said shaking her head as they all got to their feet, the sounds of Ellana and the Master echoing down the halls, “At this rate her apprentices’ apprentices’  _apprentices_  might not even get a shot.”

“Not even death wants the old crone,” Mahanon rolled his eyes before taking them on a tour of the barracks and armory.

Ellana’s on her fourth day of enforced bedrest and has spent most of it sending pointed comments at every healer and physician that’s come within earshot. None of them even blinked. Bull takes that to mean they’re used to it. Impressive, really.

“Ellana,” Bull says, “What’s the plan?”

“Lyna and Theron are going to arrange for me to submit a formal disruption of the year’s gatherings to the Elder Council,” Ellana says, pressing her thumb against her lower lip as she examines the center board. “We are going to attempt to readjust the schedule of the readings of the Heavenly Eddas. Normally at this time of year we sing of the apotheosis and the devotion. But in light of recent events we believe that it would be best if we change the moth’s readings and offerings to pave the way forward.”

“How so?”

“Well. We want to start with a presentation of  _Golden Rope_ ,” Ellana says, “Just to begin preparing them for our general announcements and revelations. Ideally this will help them ease into the somewhat… _shocking_  truth. Tell me, the Iron Bull, how familiar are you with the Heavenly Eddas of the People?”

“Not very,” Bull admits, “I mostly studied architecture. I know some things, the more common stories, though. I don’t know any of the full songs and verses.”

“Shall I recite it for you?  _Golden Rope_  is rather short, especially translated into common. We usually recite it in Elvhen,” Ellana says, tilting her head as she carefully captures his knight with her tower and then immediately grimaces when he uses that opening to pin her now exposed priest with his freed up pawn. If she moves her priest his pawn is available for a promotion.

Bull nods.

“During the turning of the wheat the Crafter and the Hearth Keeper played a great trick on the Friend of the Dead. Falon’Din and Jun were walking through the fields about Falon’Din’s halls. The sounds of laughter and joy and praise were loud in the air, as with the scents and smells of offerings and candles, for it was Falon’din’s season of gifts and worship. Jun remarked to his fellow that the gifts laid before him were most beautiful and precious. Perhaps someday soon Jun too would have such a grand following in his name.

“For Jun was still a young god, freshly formed from the molten blood of the mountains, so new that the copper of his skin was still rough and unrefined, raw. And those who knew of Jun’s skill with all things that must be made were known. But his rituals were small and whispered to candles under the roaring of the forge and the hiss of steam and the ringing of hammers. The worship of Jun, then, was small and whispered and routine like the brushing of hair or baking of bread. Nowhere near the golden splendor that glowed long in the night for the Friend of the Dead.

“And to this Falon’Din laughed and said to Jun, how foolish of you, Jun. Be satisfied with your pebbles and your whispered thanks. For Falon’din was born of the Daughter of Oceans and the Son of Skies, the gold and glory was born into him. Jun was born of nothing, and so he would always have nothing.

“The two parted ways, Falon’Din to his feasts and his festivities, and Jun to his forge. Humiliation burned in Jun like an ember that refused to go out. And so he went to his wife’s bower and told her of his shame. For Falon’din, Jun had thought, was right. Why would he receive such splendor for his halls when he was neither a true son of Heaven or devoted and purified acolyte of one as Ghilan’nain was?”

Ellana tilts her head and frowns. She’s noticed the trap, Bull thinks as he moves his castle on the far left.

“And what happened?” Bull asks.

Ellana shakes her head and continues, “And the Goddess of the Hearth and all things that grow laughed, and she took his mouth with hers to let him know t hat she did not laugh to mock him, but to discard his woes. Let it be remembered that Sylaise is the Goddess of the Hearth, let it be remembered that Sylaise is also the Goddess of all things ugly, discarded, scorned, and unwanted. For Mythal is the Great Mother, Daughter of the Ocean, lady of the Beautiful and Radiant, the deliverer of Justice. But it is Sylaise we pray to for the taboo, it is to Sylaise we commend children and mothers who die in birth, it is to Sylaise we call out for poisons and plagues, it is to Sylaise we turn for revenge. Sylaise is the Goddess of healing and medicines, of herbs and the wisdom of the house. And so she knows the things you can do to cut a man down where he treads where he should not.

“Let it not be forgotten, that it is to Sylaise we pray to when we are wronged and there is no recourse to heal the slight. For Sylaise has never forgotten that death was not always her nephew’s domain. Sylaise, too, was born of the Earth, but deep within its womb, bursting forth like a seed, like stone, like a mountain. Falon’din’s domain lies beyond death, to the souls of the departed. But it is Sylaise who watches the final throes and the last of the shame. It is Sylaise who makes it long, or short, depending on her whim and favor.

“And so Sylaise knew how to sweeten Jun’s hurt and sour Falon’din’s fun. She took Jun’s mouth and guided him to her, so that he would learn how to upset the Friend of the Dead. For Sylaise loved her husband as he was devoted to her and their shared hearth: her great vats of poultices and his great cauldrons of metal.

“When Jun woke he saw that where he and his wife had lain there was a bed of marigolds. Sylaise remained true to her promise, and Jun understood the way. He picked the marigolds of his wife’s bower and he began to coax and twist and braid and weave the petals together with the magic of both his and her craft. At his forge he turned each golden petal into the finest, thinest strand - the flowers remaining light and gold and fragrant underneath his gentle hands. And at his wife’s feet he listened as she taught him to use her distaff to spin the strands into true thread, and then to twist the strands into a rope.

“Soon between them they possessed a golden rope, made from the fibers of their love. And with Sylaise’ blessing, a kiss upon his brow, Jun went back to Falon’din’s halls to show him of the thing that he had made, for both Sylaise and Jun knew that Falon’din was shallow and vain. He would not stand to see something so beautiful and not have it for himself.

“Sure enough when Jun appeared before Falon’din with the golden rope, Falon’din immediately demanded it for his own.

“Why do you want it? Jun asked, I made it, it is nothing as I am nothing. And here, Jun wound the rope around his strong palms and pulled it tight as if playing with it.

“It is beautiful and I desire it, Falon’din said.

“It is nothing, as you said, for I from nothing and so I can make only nothing, Jun argued. But if you insist on having it I will ask for something in return.

“Name it, Falon’din said, hands already open fo the rope of marigold petals.

“And so Jun left Falon’din’s halls with fresh and fertile ash for his lady-wife’s gardens and rot for her poisons, and for himself, the hide and bone of animals for Falon’din’s altars. But when the rope of marigold petals left Jun’s hands and entered Falon’dins the petals bruised. They withered and they crumbled, molded and rotted, turning pale and then green and then black, crumbling into less than dust within moments. Their magic, gone as Falon’din cursed Jun. But Falon’din never spoke ill of Jun and his work again. After all, Falon’din had traded away all of his offerings for dust. Who was he to talk?”

“Clever story,” Bull says, “Sounds pretty. But why that one?”

“Because it is meant to teach us that there is no inherent meaning in any object,” Ellana says sighing and turning away from the left board altogether to focus entirely on the middle board, “I concede that one. Anyway, the  _Golden Rope_  is supposed to tell us that the worth and meaning of an object is personal and is what we make of it. It is not strictly what it is. The marigolds on their own were mere flowers, but for Jun and Sylaise they were a product of their love and respect for one another and so they became a great and powerful rope of their shared crafts. But in Falon’dins hands it lost that power and became nothing because Falon’din only saw it for the golden surface.”

“Supposed to?”

“It can be taken other ways,” Ellana admits, “But the point is that much like the rope of marigold petals, our history and our beliefs are ours, shaped by our living minds and selves. Our gods and religion are what we make of it. Even if they were real people before, they no longer are  _now_. The Fen’Harel of our beliefs has been shaped and molded into a separate entity from the man who walks Thedas.”

“And?” Bull presses, because it’s never so topical with Ellana Lavellan, Commander of the Dales and the Heart of the People.

“And it’s also a reminder that Solas considers all of our accomplishments as a society up until now  _nothing_  to the point where he wants to tear them down and build on our ashes and that we repay that sort of thing by shoving said accomplishments into other people’s faces until they choke,” Ellana says. “I was going for subtlety.”

“Like Krem’s favorite war hammer? Right.  _Subtle_. I’m beginning to see the resemblance between you and your elder brother.”

“I’m  _older_ , he  _pushed me out of the way in the womb_.”


	202. Chapter 202

The house needs.

Ellana would say work, but somehow that seems like she'd be underselling it. The house just  _needs_. It needs people who care, it needs new paint, new floors, new drywall, new roofing, new insulation, new pipes, new plumbing, new cabinets, new windows, new wiring, new landscaping, new  _everything_.

The house needs.

It needs work. It needs effort. It needs time. It needs money. It needs devotion.

And Ellana needs something that needs her. She didn’t realize it until they pulled up to the house and Ellana saw it four houses away. She didn’t expect to find her dream house on almost their first try, but she did.

A house that  _needed_.

All her life she’s had things already made and given to her, pre-shaped, pre-conceived, pre-planned. Her home, her family, her life before…all of this.

Solas had given her and her brother everything. He demanded that they learn to do everything themselves, that they learn to dirty their hands because you can’t be a good leader if you ask someone to do something you, yourself, aren’t willing to do.

She remembers shivering in the woods, she remembers electrical burns, she remembers gasoline, she remembers screaming, she remembers the recoil of a gun.

But most of all she remembers the blood.

And for all of the things he made them learn to do with their own two hands, the rest of it was handed to them.

She slept in a room decorated modestly and maintained by someone who was not herself. She dressed in clothes picked for practicality and mundane banality. She ate whatever was in front of her. She did whatever was put in her hands. She went where she was told. She thought what she was told to think and when. Her life was prefabricated.

And then she left and her life was determined, then, too, by someone else. This time, the government.

They gave her a job. They cleared her name and they gave her false papers and they gave her a story and they gave her excuses. They gave her an apartment, pre-furnished, and provided a way for her to live a new life that was several degrees separate fro her old one. They gave her limitations. They gave her a check-list for living outside of the life she once had. Displacement, in a way.

And then the Iron Bull.

The Iron Bull with all of his friends and his family, already set up for her to slide into. His apartment that she entered and never left after a few years, where her own life is a topical paint on top of the deep layers of his living.

But has she in her life ever had anything that was truly hers?

(Once.)

Ellana gets out of the car and stares at the house that needs people, needs time, needs money, needs hard work and effort.

This time she’s here by herself. They’re going to sign. Who else will buy this house?

The Iron Bull needed convincing but he said yes.

And it wasn’t just so she would be happy. He wouldn’t do that to her, to them. He wouldn’t lie like that just so she could have something she wants, something he doesn’t. Bull is a grown man who knows when to say yes and when to say no.

He wouldn’t have agreed to buy a house that states clearly and from several blocks away that it needs desperate amounts of attention and money to make it habitable just because she asked him to.

She thinks he knows she needs this. She thinks he knows they can do it.

And something in this house has pushed him over into saying yes.

She walks around the house to the back, the susurrus of grass knee-high and dangerously nostalgic.

Ellana had buried him in a field. A field with grass like this.

This is going to be her home. Her first home since she buried her brother.

She used to think that home was where her family was. And then she had no family she could return to. And then home became wherever her former father was not.

And now, Ellana had come to think that home was wherever she could dream without fear: on Dorian’s pull out after they have a movie night, Sera’s hair in her mouth as they squeeze in tight to fit, with Herah a warm and heavy weight at her back, the sound of Maxwell snoring on the floor and Kaaras mumbling to Dorian from the kitchen; in the slightly scratchy couch in Evelyn’s apartment with the sound of dog’s paws on tile going abruptly silent onto carpet and the harsh panting of their breath; on the bed that is not quite large enough for herself and the Iron Bull even when they fall in together like snowflakes in a snow globe after a long day apart working their individual selves in their individual lives.

Standing in this grass that takes her almost an entire twenty years back in her memory, looking up at a house that really is just a public hazard in a vague box shape, she thinks that she can redefine home just a little bit more.

Home, she thinks, could possibly be the place she builds here. It could be the potential she pulls out of faded wood and cavernous rooms. Home could be the choices and compromises she and the Iron Bull make to build a place from vague ideas into a concrete space.

Home, Ellana thinks as she listens to the grass, could be the place that she and the Iron Bull build with love and care and open out to the people who have loved and cared for them. The place they populate with their memories and their laughter. Their scuff marks and scratches and flecks of paint and their little details unique and special to the action of building and living.

Home, Ellana thinks with a tentative longing that a deep part of her is afraid and excited for, is the place you build for yourself.


	203. Chapter 203

“So. This…Lavellan,” Cullen says the name slowly as the Iron Bull nods, “Does she know that you were once an international spy?”

“Of course not, why would I tell her that?” Bull replies.

“It’s bound to come up eventually,” Dorian says, “I mean. If you’re actually in a relationship with her and not just…fucking around.”

“I can’t believe you Southerners are so fucking crass,” Bull says, giving them all very disappointed looks. “Not everything is about fucking.”

“Has he been hit on the head very, very hard recently?” Evelyn whispers to Krem who just shakes his head and continues playing  _Cookie Crash_  on his phone.

“Nope,” Krem says at a completely normal volume, completely uncaring about the delicacy of this situation, “He’s been keeping himself pretty for his new lady friend. Ugly enough mug without adding a lump the size of an egg.”

Bull glares at Krem, “I don’t know why I keep you around.”

“You’re just going to not tell this poor woman that she’s in a relationship with a former secret spy who works as a consultant for the Inquisition that he sort of helped build up,” Dorian says flatly. “It will come up. Evelyn’s face is in the paper every two hours. If you search her name you’ll get a new series of top hits every half hour.  _We’re still current news_.”

“It’s not going to come up,” Bull says with the self confidence of someone who’s about to watch the world crumble before their eyes. “Besides, I had enough trouble trying to get her to talk to me when we first met and she knew I’m a cop.  _I’d never see her again if she knew I was former intelligence_.”

“Ah,” Varric says, snapping his fingers, “Lavellan. I remember where I’ve heard that name before. Andraste, Tiny.” Varric gives the Iron Bull a considering look, “You’re damn serious about this lady.”

“Where’d you hear about her from?” Evelyn asks Varric.

“She’s one of Merrill’s friends,” Varric says, “They do yoga together once a week and they have a stitch’n’bitch every other Friday. Guess who’s the current topic of the bitch part? Apparently Lavellan doesn’t know what to do with the attention of a ruggedly handsome police officer who knows advanced bio-chemistry enough to make jokes about it.”

“She’s not going to keep buying the line that you’re an average police officer,” Cullen says.

“Andraste’s flaming sword, Bull, you’ve got enough brains in you for two PHD’s,” Dorian says, “It’s infuriating. She’s going to notice your  _much higher than average_  intelligence. Especially if you keep making  _advanced bio-chemistry jokes_  at her. And she’s going to start wondering, golly, what’s a guy who knows enough about bio-chemistry to make off-handed jokes like this doing working as a police officer?”

“Good thing you only need a GED to be a cop,” Bull shrugs. “A man can have interests. Someone explain why Blackwall knows a disturbingly advanced amount of physics. Now  _there’s_  a man who’s barely gotten a GED. What the fuck is his business knowing advanced physics? None. He just likes it. For fun. I can like bio-chem for fun.”

“And the history of ancient civilization’s architecture, two dead languages, a surprising grasp of the classics - poetic and prose -, an extremely sturdy foundation in coding and computer hacking,” Evelyn ticks off on her fingers, “Remind me, Bull, what else do you like to do  _for fun_?”

“I can’t believe you’re going through so much effort to get laid. If I weren’t seeing it with my own two eyes I wouldn’t believe it,” Dorian muses.

“I’m not doing this to get laid, Pavus.  _It’s not all about fucking_. If I wanted to get laid I would  _definitely_  have told her I was former intelligence. Or I’d have found someone else to get laid with because it’s not that hard to find a willing partner,” Bull says. “I’m not doing this to get laid, I’m doing this because I want a conversation with her. She’s  _interesting_.”

“Interesting,” Varric repeats.

“Ask him how they met,” Krem says.

All eyes swing back to the Iron Bull.

“How did you two meet?” Varric asks with some degree of trepidation.

“I saw her brain a guy with a can of pop from across a busy intersection. She hit him so hard the can exploded and he got a concussion,” Bull says, grinning from ear to ear as he leans on the table. The table groans alarmingly as Bull leans his weight on it, letting out a disturbingly  _wistful_  sigh. “She saw him pickpocket an old man with a cane.”

“Maker’s breath, they’re perfect for each other,” Cullen says.

Evelyn groans, “Just once, Bull, just once can things be simple with you?”

-

“You didn’t tell me you were former intelligence,” Ellana says, sounding extremely peeved but definitely not the kind of pissed and outraged he thought she’d be when this secret eventually got out. Bull had hoped he’d die with that secret but things change.

“You didn’t tell me you were a former crime syndicate heiress,” Bull replies.

Ellana gives him the eye as she puts a pot on the stove with an unnecessarily loud  _clang_. The heat clicks on with a  _whoosh_  and she scowls at the pot like she’s willing water to boil faster.

It’s almost three in the morning and they’ve only just now finished talking to the police and sorting everything out. The glass is swept away, neighbors have retreated to their homes to stare from behind their windows instead of from their front yards, most of the blood is dealt with, and various displaced objects have been returned to their original positions.

In the case of the broken TV, the side of the house for disposal.

Bull has a feeling Ellana wouldn’t be nearly as pissed off as she is now if the TV remained intact.

“You don’t just  _tell people_  you have a criminal past, Bull,” Ellana snaps, “Who does that? No one! You don’t tell people you’re a criminal. That’s not how you make friends.”

“As opposed to telling them you’re former intelligence from an enemy nation?”

“That’s thrilling! Exciting! That’s a conversation starter!  _Hi, I’m a former crime syndicate heiress who escaped the dubious clutches of a life of moral depravity by the skin of my teeth and legal technicalities_  is a  _conversation ender_ ,” Ellana says, stomping across the kitchen and practically ripping open the refrigerator door.

She comes out with a bottle of wine and she turns to look him in the eye.

“We do not drink when cooking on an strong open flame,” She says. “But in light of recent events I think you would agree with me when I say that I am not drinking while cooking on an strong open flame. I am drinking while boiling an egg on a strong open flame and since that egg will not be for consumption it does not count.”

Ellana rips the cork off with her teeth, spits it into the sink and starts drinking.

Bull watches her as she stomps around the kitchen, wine bottle in one hand, and scowl on her face. There’s a lot of not-quite passive aggressive body language going on here that involves a lot of hands that aren’t his on her hips, tapping feet, angry huffs, and glares thrown at him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was former intelligence sooner,” Bull says. “But really.  _You’re a former crime syndicate heiress_? I did a background check on you.”

“And I did a background check on you!”

Bull blinks, “Why did you - did I come off as shady to you or something?”

“Of course you came off as shady to me! You’re a police officer! A police officer who took an unusual interest in me! When  _you’re a former crime syndicate anything all police are shady!_ Do you know how many police officials I had in my own personal pocket by the time I was twelve?   _Do you?_ ”

Ellana puts four eggs into the water.

“Those are not going to help our bruises,” Bull says.

Ellana glares harder at him and pointedly takes a swallow of wine.

“Now you’re being petty. You aren’t even savoring it,” Bull sighs.

“It’s three dollar wine from the gas station, there’s nothing here to savor,” Ellana snaps, but she holds the wine bottle out to him anyway. Bull crosses the kitchen and takes it, hand covering Ellana’s. The line of her shoulders softens but her mouth remains a hard scratch on her face. “I am furious with you.”

“That’s fair,” Bull says, running his fingertips over the back of her hand. “I’m also kind of pissed at you, too.”

“Fine,” Ellana says. The angry lines of her soften even more and this time her voice softens with it, “And these eggs aren’t for  _our bruises_. They’re for  _your bruises_. Go take a shower and lie down on the bed. I’ll bring the eggs and the first aide kit up when they’re ready. Don’t think I missed how you’re walking funny. Your knee almost went out again, didn’t it? It was moving that fucking TV. I knew we should’ve gotten the smaller one, but  _no_ , you insisted. We never even watched anything on it.”

“In the TV’s defense, we had it for less than twenty-four hours.”


	204. Chapter 204

He wants to ask about the tattoo.

Because he’s seen her naked and he’s never once saw the tattoo or the remains of one that would have ever given him the slightest of inklings that she’s former organized crime.

He wants to ask, but she’s pissed and as a result they’re lying on separate sides of the bed. It’s a big bed, but they’ve never really slept apart on it. His weight plus gravity and  _her_  weight usually means they fall into each other if they aren’t already tangled up because of her perpetually freezing feet and stubborn refusal to just get another blanket or wear socks when she can just shove her feet against his calves.

It seems strange to be lying down covered in bruises and probably in some state of mental shock while Ellana stews on the other side of the bed, also covered in bruises, and also in some state of mental shock, and neither one of them talking even though they’re both perfectly awake with sunlight just about threatening to announce that they’ve been up all damn night and have to go to work within a few hours with absolutely zero sleep.

Bull wants to reach over and touch her, wrap his hand around her arm and pull her close so that they tumble in together like they normally do. Like the way he’s gotten used to so that now that  _they aren’t_  he finds it weird and difficult to fall asleep if he doesn’t have her ice block feet against his legs and her bony elbows pressing against his stomach and sides.

“Are you awake?” Ellana says into the not-yet gray morning.

“Yes,” Bull replies.

They both turn to look at each other at the same time.

And then Ellana sighs and rolls over until she’s less than a finger way from him and stops. Bull hopes he isn’t pouting overly much.

“You’re covered in bruises with a bum knee,” Ellana says, “I’m not doing this to torture you. Stop pouting. It’s weird, you’re a grown man, you shouldn’t have a pout that powerful.”

“Oh,” Bull blinks, “You wouldn’t hurt me. I’ve had worse with worse sleeping conditions.”

Ellana raises an eyebrow, “Do you happen to be referring to when you were a super secret spy for a hostile nation?”

“Yeah,” Bull says flatly, “I was, actually.”

Ellana rolls her eyes and moves close enough that her clothes brush against his skin and she curls on her side, arms tucked up underneath her head.

“I don’t like that you might have gotten hurt because of me,” She says, “I just don’t understand how it happened, and why now, and that bothers me.”

“When did you leave it?” Bull asks.

“When I was fifteen,” Ellana replies.

Bull wants to ask about the tattoo. He wants to ask how she left. He wants to ask her what, exactly, she left behind. He wants to ask her if she’d been living with the fear of something like this happening this entire time.

Was that why she didn’t want to even talk to him, at first? Aside from the whole cop thing.

“I still can’t believe I didn’t see anything,” Bull says.

Ellana smiles, “I tricked a super spy.”

“ _Ex_  super spy,” Bull says, “Besides, I’d quit way before I met you. I’m rusty.”

Ellana reaches her finger out and touches it to the tip of his nose, “Excuses, excuses Mister Top International Spy.”

“For all you know I stopped being a spy because I was shitty at it,” Bull says. “I never noticed anything from you.”

Or maybe he did and just ignored it.

“I’ve done a very good job at hiding it,” Ellana says. “Ask me about the tattoo. I know you want to.”

“How did you hide your gang sign?” Bull asks.

“It was small and unfinished,” Ellana says, “And when I was finally old enough to  _legally_  get tattoos I covered it up so much no one, not even the person who first put it there, would be able to find it again.”

Ellana sits up and turns around, drawing her heavy hair up with one hand and slipping her shirt up with the other. She pulls her arm out of one of the sleeves and shoves the fabric up until it’s almost off.

Bull knows  _this_  tattoo. But he sees nothing of any gang sign he’s ever known in it. And he’s known several.

She had told him it was a cover up of a Fibonacci spiral. He can see faint hints of the lines if he squints.

But the rest is covered in the outlines of flowers and grass, long stalks and huge headed blooms and smaller filler flowers. Like someone had laid very small bouquet across the back of her left shoulder. And if you look close enough, in some of the flowers, at the centers small skulls of animals. He had asked about that. Ellana had said something pretty about spring.

“It took a long time to cover,” Ellana says, slowly pushing and pulling the fabric down and getting her arm back in, letting go of her hair as she lies back down next to him. “So don’t feel bad about not catching that. “I’m just lucky I didn’t get far enough that I was… _promoted_  to getting the full back and sleeve. The back would’ve been done when I turned eighteen. The sleeves when I inherited fully.”

“Do I get to know what that inheritance would’ve been?”

“No,” Ellana says immediately. “Because to this day I still don’t know what it was I would’ve been inheriting. It had all seemed so clear then. And then one day it wasn’t. And I couldn’t stay to find out. And now I’m here, and this is better than anything else I could’ve been if I had stayed.”


	205. Chapter 205

"They found the person who set off the alarms and then set the charges,” Cullen says as Bull slowly runs his hand up and down Ellana’s bare arm.

Months of this and it still isn’t over. Either they aren’t as good as they used to be or the enemy’s gotten much better at this. Bull doesn’t like either option.

Ellana's eyes slowly drift open and she straightens a little against him, “I want to see them. I want to see who got so close.”

“Ellana, you don’t have to,” Evelyn says, “It’s my job. I take care of my friends and you’re one of them. You’ve done enough, telling us everything you know and giving us the information you already have. You can stay out of this. You - you worked so hard to get out the first time.”

“It won’t be the same as then,” Ellana protests, taking Evelyn’s hand in her own, “Besides. I don’t think - I don’t think I did get out. We’re here, after all. Aren’t we?”

“That's also mostly me so far,” Bull points out to her but Ellana shakes her head and stands up, drawing the jacket she’d pulled from their suitcase, as Inquisition security rushed them to a some armored cars and off to Skyhold, tighter around herself.

Bull stands up behind her and follows, glancing at Cullen who shakes his head.

Sera’s leaning against the wall next to the door as she stares down at a man being held between Rylen and Grim.

The man’s eyes are focused on Ellana.

Ellana’s steps falter and Bull raises a hand to touch her shoulder. She finishes entering the room.

Evelyn casts Bull a questioning glance but Bull doesn’t know who this is, either. Ellana’s told them  _things_  but never names, never faces, never solid details.

“We caught him heading south west, about ten miles down the highway from your latest safe house,” Sera says. “He didn’t put up much of a fight once we caught him. Pulled over and everything. He hasn’t said anything at all since. Though I think we can guess where he’s from, marked up like that.”

Ellana’s hand brushes against his for a moment, her knuckles driving over his as she stares at the man who silently, calmly stares back.

“Fen’enaste,” The man says, voice low and cool. He lowers his eyes and turns his head down to the side.

Ellana’s fingers brush his again but she moves away before Bull can grasp them.

“Tel’enaste,” Ellana says softly, “Not anymore. If you speak, though, I will listen.”

Bull looks down at her, and her face looks confused. But there’s surprise there, warmth. Nostalgia.

“Fen’Harel sent me to slit your husband’s throat in his sleep,” The man says, eyes raising to meet Ellana’s.

“Shitty job of it, he didn’t even make it into the room,” Sera says.

“He loves you still,” The man continues. “Your place remains empty.”

Ellana steps away from Bull’s side and towards the man.

“Did he tell you to fail on purpose? Or did he send you knowing that you would choose to fail?” Ellana shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” The man’s mouth twitches, it could be a smile. “I know not. It matters not. He commanded. I obeyed. What he commanded and what I obeyed is unclear. The situation before us, however, is not. You remain, in my eyes,  _enaste_.”

Ellana sighs, a soft sigh. A gentle sigh. A fond sigh.

And then Ellana turns around and so calmly and slowly that no one actually moves until she’s done, she walks towards Sera and takes the gun off of Sera’s hip, walks back to where she was standing, turns the safety off, turns around and aims it at the man.

“Abelas,” Ellana says, voice still soft, still warm, but curling at the edges with a burning sort of blackness, “You have always been good to me. You have always been my favorite. I have not and will never forget what you have done for me. You will tell me his message, you will tell me what  _you_  know, you will tell me what  _I need to know_ , or I will shoot you. And because there remains some love, I think, between us, I will shoot you somewhere that will not be dangerously lethal. But again out of the love between us, I must warn you that it has been over twenty years since I have fired a gun with intent and that would, understandably, make me quite rusty. Make it clear and make it concise, I know you’re good at least one of those things.”

“Ellana,” Cullen warns.

“He was mine,” Ellana says, eyes focused on the man who remains perfectly still. “Before. My soldier. My guard. My teacher. He was mine before he was anyone else’s. Practice. For leading a larger force. A gift to an heiress.”

“Gifts to each other,  _enaste_ ,” Abelas says quietly, and then louder, “The Wolf wants you to know that he is aware of you and your machinations, that you are not yet beyond his reach. But he also wants you to know that he remains with you, even as you turn away from his guidance. And that he will remain with you.”

“Lovely,” Ellana mutters, “And he wants to show this by ordering a hit on my husband.”

“A failed hit.”

“Debatable depending on whether we consider if he knew you would purposefully fail or not,” Ellana replies, “And what do you think, Abelas.”

Abelas’ eyes flick away from her for the first time, to him. Abelas speaks slowly, eyes not breaking from Bull’s.

“I think that even if I I got farther I would not have succeeded in the task commanded of me. Nor should I.”

“And what do I need to know?”

“The other syndicates are moving,” Abelas replies immediately, eyes returning to her, “They sense weakness and they are moving fast. Alliances are changing. Even as we speak I do not know what is true. No information is up to date. The situation changes almost hourly.”

“Huh,” Ellana says, and then shoots.

Abelas lets out a cut off yell through his teeth, Grim and Rylen startling and grasping at Abelas’ arms as his leg gives out.

“It’s a graze,” Ellana says, putting the safety back on the gun and holding it out. Cullen snatches it immediately. Ellana turns to Evelyn and says, “He cannot stay here. You have to let him go.”

“Let him go?” Sera repeats.

“Let him go?” Evelyn’s eyes are wide as headlights, “Ellana, you just shot him. He needs medical attention. I can’t just - “

“You have to,” Ellana says, “You have to send him back. He’ll make it. He’s old, but he’s not that old that he’ll die from a graze to the outer thigh. He’s a risk to keep here. He  _is_  the message. He is meant to be sent back, as he was meant to come and find me and to fail in killing the Iron Bull, as he was meant to be kept alive and shown to me. Now we have to send him back so he can relay this.”

“Relay what, exactly?” Rylen asks as they lower Abelas down and start wrapping his thigh as the man breathes in and out slowly, eyes focused on the ceiling.

“That I love my husband,” Ellana says, “That I love my friends. And I’m not leaving. But I’m not going to sit back and let this happen to me again.”

Ellana turns and looks at the Iron Bull and this time she holds her hand out to him for him to take.

“Again?” Bull asks.

“Never again,” Ellana says, stepping close to him and pressing her face against his chest, “I’m sorry you had to see that part of me. I wish I really did get away.”

Bull puts his arm around her drawing her closer, his other hand resting on her head as he pulls her from the room and away from this, one step at a time. Just like she pulls him away from Seheron and the Ben-Hassrath with the slow and steady brush of her knuckles every time he wakes up confused and afraid.

“You are away,” Bull says to her hair, “We are away. And we’ll stay that way. I’ll take care of you, Ellana. And you’ll take care of me. In sickness and in health. Until death do us part.”


	206. Chapter 206

Bull is startled awake by a hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t do anything as dramatic as pull a knife or snap bone. It’s been a very long time since he was in a place where he would have to do that.

Bull opens his eye, mental clock steering him somewhere towards after midnight but not before two or three, and Ellana stands, bent over him. She is an unclear shape, an unsettling shape.

Part of him panics, confused and unsettled. How did she get so close?

It’s true that it’s been years since he was in the places where he would need the dramatics of a knife or broken bone. But there are things that don’t leave you. Bull wakes up to the sound of his pipes and he wakes up when the air so much as shakes a window pane. He wakes up to the light of his phone signaling a message at night if he doesn’t put the thing face down.

But here Ellana stands over him, touching him. And he didn’t notice.

He must be slipping pretty damn far.

That and he -

He trust her a lot.

“S’matter?” Bull mumbles, mouth fuzzy with sleep.

“You lied,” Ellana says, voice slightly more awake than his. He can’t see in the dark, well - probably not as well as she can. But his brain can puzzle enough together, even just awake and confused.

“I didn't lie,” Bull says, body slowly tensing with the cold of the living room as he starts to wake up more. The cold helps him pull it together, find his words, his edges, “I just never said anything.”

Ellana’s hand is warm, but that’s only because he’s freezing. Ellana’s hands and feet are always cold, Bull just happens to be colder.

“You have two blankets,” Ellana says. “There’s no heater for the apartment, is there?”

“Nope,” Bull says. There’s only the one heater he had left in his room for her.

“AC?” She asks, mind going back to the past summer when she started staying over and he had taken the couch every time.

“Just the room,” Bull confirms and Ellana clicks her tongue hard. “It’s fine. I’m a tough guy, I can handle it.”

Ellana’s hand seizes his and pulls, “You’re being stupid. You should’ve put me on the couch to start with.”

“That’s rude,” Bull says, resisting even as she pulls harder at his hand, “What?”

“You’re going to bed with me,” Ellana says. “Like you should’ve done  _four hours ago_. I can’t believe that you - this entire time -  _ugh_.”

“I don’t want to…” Bull starts but Ellana’s nails dig into his palm and he imagines the look she’d be giving him right now if he could actually see it.

“This is  _your apartment_ ,” Ellana says, “I’m not going to let you freeze in your own apartment.  _It’s negative ten outside_. It feels negative  _fifty_  in here. Gods - come on. Don’t be stubborn about this.”

“I don’t want to make you feel weird about this. I know you don’t like touching stuff,” Bull says and then grimaces because  _tact_.

But that does cause Ellana to stop pulling at his hand.

“We’ve been together for almost seven months,” Ellana says, her grip on his hand loosening, but not letting go. “And - you’ve had me stay over loads of times. And we’ve had this talk before. But just because I’m not comfortable being…physically intimate that way with you doesn’t mean I don’t want you near me. I know you. You aren’t going to roll me over and ravish me in my sleep. I’ll be okay. We’ll just be sleeping.”

Bull slowly lets her coax him up and through the dark hall to his bedroom. The door closes behind them and he feels immediately warmer, even as her hands push him towards the bed.

This is probably a first for him. Having to be talked into getting  _into_  bed with a willing and beautiful woman.

Ellana lies down and Bull gets in after her.

It’s awkward. Because of course it’s awkward.

“I don’t  _not_  like being touched,” Ellana says quietly, her fingers uncertain as she grasps his hand, “I’m just not used to it is all. It’s weird for me. I’ll let you know if something doesn’t work.”

“Alright,” Bull says and slowly raises his arm to pull her closer because the bed isn’t that large and it’s freezing enough that there’s little sense in them spending the night shivering at opposite ends. “This good?”

Ellana’s stiff against his chest, but after a few moments of wiggling around she finds a position that she must think is good enough because she relaxes against him.

“Yeah,” She says, “This is good. Are you good?”

“I think I’m starting to feel feeling feelings in my feet,” Bull says, “I’m good.”

Ellana snorts a soft laugh into her hair, “You should’ve told me sooner. Were you just going to pretend you  _weren’t_  freezing tomorrow - er - later today? I can’t believe you let me almost let you freeze to death in your own living room. Isn’t that like - framing someone for murder sort of?”

“I wouldn’t have died,” Bull says, carefully pulling her a bit closer, dragging his thumb over the sharp just of bone at her wrist, “What made you get up anyway?”

“I wanted to get some water,” Ellana says, “I woke up a bit to pee and my throat hurt because it was dry. I can’t get sick, Bull. It’s crafts season for the kids and we’re working on Fall Harvest arrangements and drawings. If I sub out what will they do?”

“Pester their sub with questions?” Bull muses, “Make the sub go complain to your boss about how weirdly invasive and nosy your class is?”

“They were only like that because you’re you and of course seven year olds want to ask a police officer with  _horns_  and an eyepatch all the questions in the world,” Ellana huffs, lightly kicking back at him. Bull grimaces because her feet really are freezing. “Though the look on your face when they asked if our babies would have horns like yours was  _priceless_.”

“I’d known you for all of  _two months_  what was I supposed to do? I didn’t know your life plan at the time. For all I knew you were planning a damn litter of kids.”


	207. Chapter 207

“Maybe for the next one we’ll time it so I’m  _not_  pregnant during the worst of summer,” Lavellan says as she fans her red face with a magazine.

“Next one?” Dorian asks, “ _There’s going to be a next one_? I don’t remember discussing the Pavus-Lavellan baby number two.”

“It’ll be Kaaras’ baby to make it fair,” Ellana says immediately. “Dorian, it’s very unattractive of you to sputter your lemonade like that. You know I can’t bend down and clean that floor.”

“Kaaras is not going to father one of your children,” Dorian says.

“Why not?” Ellana’s eyes take a sharp turn that makes Dorian uncomfortably aware of the fact that the one true threat Mahanon Lavellan considers in the entire world is his younger sister, to the point where he shrugs off almost all negative statements with the vague mention of,  _my sister’s done worse_.

Thus far, Ellana has laughed off all such statements and responded by  _Mahanon’s so dramatic, I’m honestly so surprised that the two of you never tried dating, it would have been a train wreck but beautiful to watch_.  _Like two peacocks trying to go at it._

Dorian is deeply offended by that. Dorian is told that Mahanon is also deeply offended by that and both of them had the same response of  _but peacocks are stupid_   _and their scream is awful_.

“Do not start suggesting to Kaaras that he could be the next father of your child,” Dorian warns her as he goes to get something to mop up the mess he just made with. She’s right, she can’t reach that kind of mess on the floor anymore even if she is the one who made it. “That’s not the kind of conversation you have with people. You’re eight months pregnant and I still can’t believe you had it with me.”

“Is Kaaras not part of this family, Dorian?”

Dorian resists the urge to glare at her and say something very smart or particularly cutting because Ellana has a very special talent for turning those around mid-flight and launching them back at whoever spoke first. It’s probably half of what drives Mahanon crazy. The rest is entirely genetics.

“Kaaras has been a friend to all of us, yes,” Dorian says. To some a bit more than to others. Such is how friendships in large groups work. Not everyone is equal in relationships for obvious reasons. And no two relationships are the same.

Dorian has known Kaaras for a very long time.

He’s dated Kaaras for only a few months. Less time than Ellana has been pregnant with the Baby.

He’s not going to let Ellana spring  _father of my child_  on Kaaras. He doesn’t know the relationship Ellana and Kaaras have, other than it’s good and overall amiable, but he still isn’t going to let her drop that on the man.

After all, Dorian and Kaaras aren’t even sure if they’re working as a romantic couple yet. For all anyone knows they’ll be back to friends in a few more months. Maybe weeks. Maybe days.

Dorian’s mouth feels dry and sour at the thought. It’s always so hard to move from one to the other and then back again. He’s never done that before, actually, now that he thinks on it.

And now he’s incredibly nervous.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Dorian accuses, hunching his shoulders as he drops to his knees to wipe up the spilled lemonade.

Ellana shrugs and fishes a sliver of ice out of Dorian’s glass with a fork and pops it into her mouth before slowly reclining on the sofa with a groan.

“My everything is sticking to everything,” Ellana says, “My stomach is chaffing my thighs, my thighs are chaffing my thighs, and my boobs are just not in a good place right now.”

“Tell that to the Iron Bull, I don’t think he’s ever thought your chest was so attractive.”

“He’s got a sharp eye for aesthetics,” Ellana agrees, “I happen to think he’s got an excellent bosom, myself. The absolute softest thing in the world, I swear.”

-

Mahanon’s hair is soft and fine between her fingers as she runs her hand through his hair. There are no tangles, there never are.

“I love the Iron Bull,” She says softly and Mahanon nods against her leg, letting out a soft sigh as he turns to nuzzle his face against her thigh. “Say something. You haven’t said anything about this. And I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“Is that not a sign?” Mahanon says, raising his eyebrow, eyes still closed.

“Mahanon.”

“What do you want me to say, sister? Whether I approve or not does not change that you love him and that you will marry him tomorrow.”

“No, it won’t. But it would mean a lot to me. Either way. Just to  _know_. I need to hear it, Mahanon. I know that we don’t say much about anything real to each other. I know that so much of us is contained in what we don’t say. But I need this. Please.”

Mahanon rolls over onto his back and opens his eyes.

“I am worried for you,” He says, “I will always worry for you. It doesn’t matter who you would have chosen, the fact is that I will worry. Just like you will always worry after me.”

Ellana runs her thumb down the side of Mahanon’s face and waits.

He catches her hand in his and squeezes it, “The two of you have a relationship that leans, in part, on the understanding that there are certain types of intimacy you cannot give and that he should not expect. Will it last? He is a good man. He is a respectable man. It is unfair of me to cast aspersions. But it is something inside of me anyway. And  _you_. You and your games, your games and your ideas where you mind goes where no one else’s does. It’s what made you  _his_  favorite, once.”

Ellana grimaces and Mahanon shakes his head.

“It is not a bad thing, my sister. The two of you may have certain similar attributes but you used yours to go separate paths he could never see. Though I worried for you too, because of this. The paths you and our once teacher walk are strange and foreign and obscured by so many things. They lead you where no one else can follow, sometimes not even each other. They are inscrutable. The Iron Bull is a good and patient man, but even he would wear down under such…opaqueness.”

“So you thought poorly of our match from the start.”

“No. I worried about the two of you from the start. I will continue to worry. But I know the two of you make each other happy, and that the two of you will treat each other right. Overall. That would be, I hope, your intent. I cannot speak to the future or to the interactions the two of you hold in private or in moments of passion. But I have  _eyes_. The two of you are as gone over each other as Trevelyan and Rutherford.”

“Is there nothing I can do to ease your mind?” Ellana asks.

“No,” Mahanon says, closing his eyes again. “Just…do what’s right for each other.  Whenever you can. You have so far. Just keep doing that.”

“Then I have your blessing?”

“Do you actually need it?”

“Please.”

“Then yes. You have it.”


	208. Chapter 208

“Sorry, big guy, I don’t trust her,” Sera says.

Bull turns to Sera in surprise, “You don’t trust her?”

“She wears a pink cardigan,” Sera says, “And she’s never even smoked weed. And she smiles a lot. That kind of background is weird. Suspicious even. I don’t trust it. I mean, great you two make each other happy, but I don’t trust it. She’s hiding something. She’s too fake-good to be real good.”

“I never realized you were such a pessimist about people,” Herah says.

“Tell me you don’t feel the same,” Sera replies, crossing her arms and raising a stubborn eyebrow.

Herah shrugs, “No, you’re right. It’s a little weird how bland her life is, especially considering she’s now dating  _you_.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Either she’s really, really,  _really kinky,_ ” Sera says, “Or she’s hiding something.”

Bull frowns at the two women, “She can’t just like me?”

“Not enough to date you,” Herah says, “You’re a very special person. I wouldn’t want to date you. You’re a good guy. But I swear I would probably want to kill you if I had to date you.”

“Am I supposed to be offended here?”

“Maybe,” Sera says.

“You have to admit, you don’t have the most  _winning_  personality,” Herah shrugs, “You’re an acquired taste.”

Bull gives Herah a flat look. “And apparently that acquired taste isn’t one people generally acquire?”

“Not after sip  _one_ , no,” Sera says. “Listen, just…be careful, okay? That’s what I’m saying here. She seems nice. No question. She just seems a little  _too_  nice. Weirdly clean. And that’s not the type of person that normally goes in for the type of person you are for  _long term_  relationships. Which is what it looks like you two are going for. So either she’s got something kinky going on or…I dunno. Just be careful, okay?”

“Be careful of what?”

“You’re the ex-super spy, you should know,” Herah says.

“Did anyone give you this talk?” Bull asks.

“Josephine’s also ex-intelligence,” Herah says, “No one needs to. Unless your Ellana is secretly former government something?”

“She’s not.”

“Then no, it’s definitely a different situation here,” Herah shakes her head, brushing some of her hair out of her face and over her shoulder. “I mean, at least Josephine knows what I do and what I’ve done. You haven’t told Ellana  _shit_.”

“And I’m not going to, she doesn’t need to know anything,” Bull says. “Are we done talking about how my girlfriend might have sort of possible dark and shady past?”

Sera and Herah exchange glances before both women sigh.

“Yeah, sure.”

-

“I fucking  _knew it_ ,” Sera says. “She  _was_  hiding a shady past.”

“Sera,” Bull says.

“She didn’t do drugs,  _she sold them_.”

“ _Sera,”_ Evelyn gives Sera a warning look. Sera ignores it.

“Oh my god,  _she’s killed people_.”

“Stop sounding so happy about this.”

“I knew there wasn’t anyone who could be that cookie-cutter bland for real,” Sera says and then grimaces. “You couldn’t get anyone to give you a slightly more convincing new identity?”

Ellana shrugs as she examines the thick and not-so-thick folders of the syndicates the Inquisition’s been keeping track on. Bull rests his hand on her back and she leans into it.

“I wasn’t exactly in a position to be bargaining, at the time the Orlesian government didn’t think I was particularly valuable as an asset. Especially considering that I refused to testify for any trials,” Ellana says, sighing, “Your file on the syndicates is dismally thin. Is this really all that you have? You don’t have anything else hidden away somewhere?”

“Well most of what we know is rumor,” Leliana says, “Perhaps rumor you can help to clarify.”

“I most certainly can clarify and correct. For the recent things - as in the past twenty or so years - I wouldn’t have a clue, but most of this old news. Not even news, just facts. To start with the Dragon Mother and the Beautiful Swords were the same group. And that group’s been dissolved for over thirty years. You can toss all of this,” Ellana says, waving two files up. “It’s beyond obsolete, it’s basically history. Ancient history, given how the syndicates move so fast. And you’ve got tons of duplicates here. And most of the marks and pictures and allegations you have here are convoluted and ascribed to the wrong groups. The Secrets don’t do hits. And they don’t do flesh. Organs, rarely, but never life trafficking. That’s entirely the Hunters and the Herd. Sometimes the Sun and the Fire. You’d be able to tell based the brands, circuits for purchase, and going rates.”

Ellana sighs, looking over the spread out documents, “I can’t believe this is all you have. Really? I thought the Inquisition has access to national intelligence from allied nations as well.”

“The syndicates you belong to are very secretive,” Leliana says, “It’s been hard for anyone to keep track of them. Especially with how convoluted they are, tangled up in each other like yarn.”

Ellana shrugs, “If you say. It’s not like I have experience with it from this side of things. But it wasn’t nearly this hard for them to keep track of you.”

“You let us think you were boring as hell,” Sera says, “How did you pull that off? I bet you’re tons of interesting.”

“Thank you, Sera,” Ellana says, glancing at Sera with a faintly exasperated look that pulls at her eyes. “I didn’t realize the reason you were uncomfortable around me was because I seemed  _boring_. If you’d have told me I’d have told you something like I had a habit of petty arson or theft.”

“Did you ever think that maybe she’s trying to escape her past and that’s why  _she’s got a government issued identity_?” Evelyn says to Sera.

“Well it looks like she hasn’t done so well so far,” Sera says.

Ellana’s lips press together but she agrees, “Sera’s right. I’m actually sort of surprised they didn’t come back for me sooner. Something must have changed.”


	209. Chapter 209

“You came back,” Josephine’s eyebrows raise and Lavellan gives her a cool look.

“Am I not the Iron Bull’s guardsman?” She replies, “I would see him, if it is permitted safe.”

Lavellan wonders how much she must cut from herself before it is understood that she is the Iron Bull’s Shadow, now. His knife, his eyes, his executioner and assassin.

A pang echoes, hollow, in her chest, a longing to be part of something larger than herself. A flock, a murder, a judgement.

She suspects that her name has been struck from the records, expunged from the list of Shadows, burned out of the sacred books of blood. There will be no tree planted her among the Grove of the Silent when she dies. There will be no songs sung to guide her soul away from here. There will be no one to mourn her.

Lavellan is almost staggered, made breathless, by the sudden wave of  _longing_  and  _heartbreak_  that crashes over her and leaves her dazed, stunned, in the wake of it. She will never walk the sacred grounds again. Her knees will not know communion with the marble and the woven rugs older than even the eldest of the Keepers as she prays. She will not ever see or hear the Knights at training, or brush shoulders with her fellow Shadows. She will never hear the triumphant cry of the Hunters back with from a ride. She is no longer an arrow of god, one of many.

Ellana will never again see her parents.

But, the part of her that’s drawn her back and drawn her blades with purpose again, reminds her,  _you will see the Iron Bull. You will see Cole and Pavus. You will see Josephine and Leliana._

Yes.

And that is why former-Shadow Ellana Lavellan returns to the Inquisition, as its Inquisitor possibly lies dying. It is why Ellana feels  _restless and angry and purposeful_  and so very alive with the weight of her knives freshly cleaned of blood. It is why Ellana’s magic sings through her, glowing with direction she has not known since her brother’s death at Kirwall.

“He is not as he was,” Josephine says, “And I did not say it to slight you, Lavellan. I only mean to say - they were your people first. And that is…difficult to shake.”

“Were, past tense,” Lavellan says, softening her voice as she touches her fingertips to Josephine’s arm. “Do you know if he will - will he survive?”

“The Iron Bull is young and strong,” Josephine says, just as soft, gentle with the handling of someone like glass. Ellana appreciates it. How many times can someone lose their home in a lifetime? Let alone a week?

But Ellana is old enough and distanced enough from her previous losses to know that she has been losing the Dales, and has been lost to the Dales, for years.

And now she is finding herself once more here, with the Inquisition. With the Iron Bull.

“This is in his favor,” Josephine continues, grasping Lavellan’s hands in her owns, “We must have faith in his strength. The Inquisitor has been able to shoulder this alone so far. And now he is not alone.”

“No,” Ellana says around a lump in her throat that swells like clotted blood and splatters just as hot and vicious against her tongue, “He is not.”

“Go,” Josephine says, “I will tell Leliana and Cullen you have returned to us.”

“Thank you, Josephine.”

“You are our friend, Ellana. I sometimes wish you could believe it as much as you believe in the rest of us.”

Ellana has nothing to say to that, or to the sadness in Josephine’s face.

So she goes to the Iron Bull.

He seems - smaller, somehow. In presence, in vitality. It is not a physical thing, although the shock of seeing the bandaged stump of his arm is deeply moving and glaringly obvious. But something about the cast of his skin and the way he lies prone…

She quietly leans over, bringing her hand close to his face. He breathes, shallow and uneasy. Fever? Infection?

His eye opens, unfocused and not well.

“You came back,” He says, voice hoarse. She wonders who completed the surgery. She wonders who was with him. Someone must have held him down. Who?

Would she thank them? Hate them?

Ellana’s throat threatens to close.

“I made you a promise, I swore an oath,” She says, “Did you think I would break it?”

She’s broken her promises, her oaths, her vows to the Dales.

His breathing is a wheeze, a rattle and Ellana slowly sinks to her knees at his side and lets her fingertips rest, a bare brush of skin.

“You cannot die,” She says, voice low. She wills him to open his eyes. To look at her. To see her.

 _I came back for you_ , she thinks at him.  _I will always come back for you_. _Will you come back for me?_

Death has always had a peaceful allure to those who have known blood. This, Ellana cannot deny.

In the gray of  _after-Kirkwall_  Ellana wanted nothing more than to stop, to rest, to find peace. To find silence. But it was not yet her time.

She is so very glad she did not push against that with haste, now.

“It is not yet your time,” She says, “You cannot know peace when you leave the world with so much unrest. Do not die.”

The Iron Bull just continues to breathe and she traces the lines of his face. So young. So tired.

“The Dales raises their eyes to the sky, they summon back their flocks, and they gather their shadows,” She tells him softly, “They intend to march. I told you before, did I not? In remembered history, there is no Kingdom or nation of the North that remembers a march of the Dales.”

 _You cannot leave me to face them alone_ , Ellana thinks.  _You cannot leave me to witness the echoes of your revolution without you_   _there to lead it_.

The Iron Bull’s head turns towards her and he breathes out, as if it takes all his effort, as if it takes none of his effort, as if it is a word slid out from his very soul, “ _Kadan_.”

“Yes,” Ellana says, resting her head down by his arm, “Yes.”


	210. Chapter 210

“It’s nice,” Kaaras says, “There’s a lot of room. Private, too. Maxwell, are you sure we can afford this?”

“I don’t see why not,” Maxwell says, “Between my ill-gotten wealth as a rich pure-blood failure and Ellana’s winnings at the tournament? Also the fact that you’re actually incredibly dependable and probably have had a budget since you were two? I’m sure we can handle this.”

“The house has a personality and that personality is charming,” Ellana announces as she opens the front door and waves them in. “I’ve never had a magic house. Are you sure your family is okay with us buying it? Because I’m pretty sure both times I’ve met your parents they were trying to will me out of existence. Good luck there, my brother’s been trying it for literal years to no success.”

“My Great, great aunt Neneline married into the family young,” Maxwell says as he ushers Kaaras into the side door and into the kitchen. “She came from a pretty well off family and she absolutely hated my great, great uncle Orwell. And to top it all off they gave her this little house in the middle of nowhere to live in. It was like, the biggest slight ever and she never forgave the marriage, or this house, or anything else that happened after. Nelly was always nice to me when she could, and I think her offering this house to me at a very low cost in her will is her way of giving the finger to the rest of the family. So absolutely we can definitely do this. My family hates it but Nana Nelly is probably screaming with laughter in her grave right about now.”

“Spite from beyond the grave,” Ellana says, “I deeply approve. I wish I could have met her. She sounds like a riot of a woman.”

“You two would have gotten along like great great uncle Orwell on fire,” Maxwell agrees.

“This kitchen is expandable,” Kaaras says.

Maxwell and Ellana look and see that Kaaras is about ten yards away from them and still walking, more kitchen unfolding itself as he goes.

“Is that a  _kiln_?”

“Dont’ be ridiculous, the kiln would be outside,” Maxwell says, “That’s a proper roasting oven. And across from it is the guest floo for deliveries. It shouldn’t unfold anymore in about four or so more yards. It’s the cellars from there.”

“Astounding,” Kaaras calls back. “How does this work?”

“It’s a magic house, Kaaras,” Ellana yells back, “Don’t question it.”

“The house elves do not come with the house,” Maxwell says, “But I think that’s fine. House elves are… _nice_  and all but it weirds me out a little. All that politeness and eager to please stuff. I think the house should be alright if  _we_  do our own work. I think it would understand that there aren’t any servants to do it.”

“Sentient houses,” Ellana says, “Like Hogwarts.”

“Sure,” Maxwell says, “But you weren’t the master of Hogwarts.”

“When’s the soonest we can move in?” Ellana asks as she takes a seat at a long kitchen bench, tracing her fingers over well worn wood, drawing a circle around the grains and knots visible. “And how upset will the house be if we try to redecorate?”

“I expect that it would expect us to redecorate, actually,” Maxwell says. “Family homes like this one tend to want to be changed whenever someone new takes over. It helps keep it…I don’t know. Clear? I suppose. Clear on who’s who and when’s when.”

“When’s when?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s a magic house.”

“Guys!” Kaaras yells, “ _I found an entire steer_. How is it still preserved like this? No rot or anything. Who even eats steer?”

“Magic house,” Maxwell says, “We can all perform extraordinary life saving feats and competed in a child-death tournament and you two can’t grasp the concept of magic house.”

-

“Budge over,” Maxwell says and the third year Slytherin boy he just nudged gives him a wide-eyed look before  _scrambling_  away, abandoning his breakfast entirely. “Are all Slytherins that flighty? Never mind, I didn’t sleep last night and I think this trial will kill me so I want to spend my last few moments with the people who count. Who’s tie is that?”

Ellana continues to lather butter onto a slice of toast, “My brother’s. He was a Hufflepuff. He sent it to me for good luck. Something borrowed, something blue, something old, something new.”

“That’s for weddings,” Kaaras says as he morosely stirs his oatmeal.

“What’s the something blue, something old, and something new?” Maxwell asks as the third  year’s place setting disappears and is replaced by a fresh one. “Oh, that’s handy. Pass the toast, would you?”

The fifth year across from him just stares.

“ _Please_?”

The fifth year passes the toast and continues to stare.

“Honestly, I thought your lot was supposed to be quick witted.”

“They’re baffled as to your annoying self being present with me instead of say - Gryffindor,” Ellana says, passing Maxwell the butter and reaching for some orange jam. “Peaches, do you want some?”

“No thank you, I’m rather hyper enough without all of that,” Maxwell says. “Anyway, the something blue, something old and something new?”

“You can’t see the blue part, that would get me in trouble,” Ellana says and Maxwell coughs out a laugh as Kaaras puts his hand over his face, the tips of his ears turning pink. “In case you aren’t getting what I mean, it’s my underwear. It’s blue. And it’s very pretty.”

“You’re going to ruin your underclassmen.”

“Or give them very exciting fantasies. Anyway. That’s my blue. The something old is this bracelet Sera gave me when we were in third year together and we both got detention for teaming up to beat up a Ravenclaw git.”

Ellana holds up her wrist and shows Maxwell a very simple, but worn and much faded, band of woven string. It might have been yellow and green once.

“And the something new is this lipstick that your cousin Evelyn and I got from a mail order catalogue,” Ellana says, fishing a small black tube out of her pocket. “I’ll put it on later.”

“You’re friends with my cousin, now?” Maxwell asks.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Ellana shrugs, taking a bite of her incredibly weighted down by butter and peach jam toast. “I was initially looking for weaknesses I could use against you, but that was before I figured out I wouldn’t need to.”

“And theres’ the Slytherin. Now that’s settled, Kaaras pass me the rashers, if I’m going to die today I want to know I died after having some bacon.”


	211. Chapter 211

“I just don’t understand why he didn’t ask me to join  _his_  auror team,” Ellana says, sulking a she rests her elbows on Fenris’ desk.

“Did I ask you?” Fenris replies dryly. Bethany mouths at him  _be nice to the baby!_

Fenris has always been fond of Bethany because up until now  _she_  had been the baby of their team and also because he’s incredibly entertained by watching her put her siblings in their place when they get rambunctious.

He is not feeling so fond of her now. She is not the one who has to deal with their new junior moping on  _her_  desk. Fenris has work to do.

“He told me I had potential and everything, Fenris,” Ellana continues, pouting mightily in a way that is reminiscent of Garrett when Ellana first said no to joining their auror team. In fact this entire conversation is eerily similar.

(“ _She said no, Fenris_ ,” Garrett whines, throwing himself bodily over Fenris’ desk. Fenris pushes his face away.

“You’re in my light.”

“Cast Lumos.”

“I have a desk light. I’m not wasting magic on your dramatics. Who said no?”

“Ellana Lavellan. She said no to joining our team. How could she? Do you think she’s still mad I didn’t really help her during the tournament? She was doing so good on her own!”

“Not everyone wants to be an auror, Hawke.”

“Everyone I know is some kind of auror or something similar.”

“Everyone I know is an ass, but does that mean the entire population of the world is one? I doubt it, somehow. Get off my desk.”)

They don’t need a female Garrett on this team. They have one. They have Miriam.

Fenris closes his eyes, did Garrett actually recruit a fifth Hawke to join their team? Did they adopt a new Hawke?

“If I had potential, why didn’t he invite me to join his team? It’s not even about schools. Maxwell didn’t go to Durmstrang.”

“His team is full.”

“It wasn’t before he invited  _Maxwell_.”

Fenris considers how mean it would be if he just said, _maybe the Iron Bull likes Maxwell better than you_.

He can’t do that to the new team member.

Fenris considers consoling her with a pat on the arm or shoulder. But that might make her think she can start leaning on  _him_  instead of his desk and Fenris is still trying to get some actual work done.

“Have you considered that perhaps he wasn’t sure if you  _wanted_  to be an auror while Trevelyan did apply and go through the necessary training?” Fenris asks.

Ellana blinks up sad eyes at him. “But  _Hawke_  asked me like seven times and I didn’t go through training or anything. It didn’t seem to matter to  _him_.”

Fenris isn’t exactly sure what Ellana wants him to tell her to make her feel better. So he just shrugs and says, “Perhaps…you could ask the Iron Bull why he didn’t approach you?”

That seems reasonable enough, but Ellana just stares at him like he has offered her great insult before scowling and turning her head away from him with a huff. But she doesn’t leave.

“I can’t ask the Iron Bull, Fenris,” Ellana says, “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Fenris repeats, and turns to Isabela who’s been entirely unsubtle about watching this with great amusement. She’s even eating a sugar quill. Varric, if he were here, would probably have some chocolate frogs out. “Some assistance.”

“No, no, I think you’ve got this handled,” Isabela says.

Fenris gives her a look.

“Alright, alright, no need to bring those eyes out. I swear it’s something entirely elf. Ellana, darling, if you want you can come over here and I’ll give you a sweet to make you feel better. And you can tell me all about your man troubles. I promise I won’t be so  _oblivious_  as to tell you to talk about it to the root of your problem.”

“Yes please,” Ellana says, “I need to smother my sorrows in sugar.”

-

“I think your baby auror has a crush on our lead auror,” Dalish says to Merrill.

“I  _know_  our baby auror has a crush on  _your_  lead auror, now tell me what your lead is going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

Merrill looks deeply unimpressed. Dalish grimaces, “He doesn’t…know…about this crush. He thinks Ellana just hates him and he’s not sure why.”

“I thought your lead was super smart,” Merrill says, “Isn’t he some sort of…really secret super spy or something? One of the best aurors in the world, should have been an Unspeakable?”

“Well,” Dalish says, “Yes. I have no excuses, really, Merrill.”

“Is anyone going to tell him?”

“We should,” Dalish admits. “But somehow it feels like a cheat.”

Merrill sighs as she considers this, “No, you’re right. It really ought to be worked out on its own. It’s just…I feel terrible for her. She’s just so incredibly sad about it, Dalish. It’s terrible that this is all over a misunderstanding. You should see her when she sulks, it’s like a very silky haired puppy.”

“I believe you, she’s got the eyes for it,” Dalish says, “But really, I think this needs to be worked out on its own. We shouldn’t meddle.”

“Not even a little, I suppose.

“Not even a little,” Dalish agrees.

They stare at the coffee pot for a few moments in contemplative silence before looking up at the same time.

“This does not mean, however, we cannot  _nudge_ ,” Dalish says. “I mean. I don’t see why I can’t just…make various comments and such. It would just be talk. I can’t  _help_ what the Chief overhears. It’s just talking, right? No harm in talking.

“I need to go talk to Hawke,” Merrill says. “Right now. You can have my coffee, I didn’t want it anyway, I was supposed to bring it to Anders but Anders hates the stuff and I don’t think he really needs anymore caffeine.”

“Which Hawke?”

“All of them!”


	212. Chapter 212

“You love her.”

Mahanon Lavellan has his sister’s uncanny gaze. It’s a black stare that can either somehow glow, like obsidian struck by afternoon sun, or devour like the spaces between stars. The effect, either way, can be disconcerting when paired with their incredible and indomitable focus. Bull doesn’t know if he’s seeing the resemblance because he knows they’re twins, or if it’s actually there.

But there is something there. An intensity that looms poorly disguised and uncaring of effect.

“I do,” Bull says. He’s known this for some time. His body ahead of his mind. His spirit ahead of his thoughts.

Mahanon slowly shakes his head, and hums, a buzzing sound through the lips as he offers Bull another scroll.

They’ve been combing through one of several libraries. Loosely translated, Mahanon says that this library is dedicated to previous iterations of Eddas. This wing alone houses the songs, chants, dirges, hymns, prose, and various other works dedicated to Sylaise. And more specific than that, written records of Sylaise that date between present and the beginning of the last age.

And it is said that Sylaise is the least mentioned of their gods.

(“Sylaise does not care to be talked about,” Ellana had said, “Dirthamen may be the Keeper of Secrets and lover of silence, but Sylaise is the true master of the art.”)

The scroll’s tube is warm from sunlight and there isn’t a single grain of dust on it. He can hear the distant whispers of cloth and feet on stone in the background as other people wind their ways through the shelves.  

Mahanon holds one end, the other resting in Bull’s palm as Mahanon’s eyes dig into the surface of his soul, it seems like.

“It is very easy to love my sister,” Mahanon says, slowly releasing the scroll’s weight into Bull’s hand. “One only needs to speak with her a handful of times before they begin to like, or at least, respect her. It has been that way since we were small. It is the reason why she earned and was able to claim the title of the  _Heart_  of the People. It is how she was able to collect us, like this.”

“Collect?” Bull raises an eyebrow.

“She amasses her coterie over time,” Mahanon continues. “I have been with her since birth, but that means nothing. We could have become distant, drifted apart. We could have resented each other. Before I was her second in Command I was the Master of Blades. The master of assassins, here. I surrendered that post to become her obvious blade. And before this, she was a singer in the Choir of Silence. There are plenty of reasons for me to resent her, and her me. I was the one with clout and stature, with visible and tangible rewards from my skills. And yet I turned it aside and released it to another to become her adjunct.”

“On the surface,” Bull says.

“On the surface,” Mahanon agrees. “But those are things that could have been. Theron is six years our senior and would have been a greatly advantageous match. The Mahariel clan is deeply entrenched in the social and economic circles of the Dales. They are wealthy and they hold some of the best land. Did you know that when you become a member of the Heart of the People’s entourage you must surrender all title? All wealth? All fame? As I surrendered my post and prestige as Master of Blades, Theron surrendered all claim to that prestigious fortune. One more, he did it in order to serve the woman who was meant to become his wife. But there is no resentment there.”

“I wouldn’t be the best judge,” Bull concedes,” But I don’t think Theron is that kind of man.”

“Theron isn’t, but Lyna is,” Mahanon says, “She’s one of his numerous cousins, very distantly removed. But the two are close friends. She had to break her engagement to become Ellana’s Hearthkeeper. Even worse, it was a love match. Lyna was in good enough standing that Tamlen’s family could permit the marriage, but once she forsook all claim to the Mahariel wealth, Tamlen’s family was forced to rescind the binding. That is what it means to become adjunct, servant, aide to the Most Holy of the Dales.”

“Are you asking me if that’s something I’m going to do for her?” Bull asks. It doesn’t sound like it.

“You have turned aside your country, broken your mind, and scattered your soul to the dust,” Mahanon says sharply, “I know you have already done this and more for her. That is not what I am telling you to think on, the Iron Bull, and do not disappoint me or my sister by turning towards the obvious. You do yourself a disservice.”

Bull raises an eyebrow, “Is this some sort of death threat for going near your sister and Most Holy or not? You’re sending mixed signals, Lavellan.”

Mahanon’s look turns from irritated to cool as he gestures for Bull to follow him to the next stack of scrolls and books.

“All of us did this because we love her. Ellana, my sister. Because she is easy to fall in love with, easier still to love. You want to do things for her. You wish to please her. Such is her gift. If only it could always be so. She is not Ellana, not really. She is the Most Holy of the Dales. As our gods are above the people they once were in flesh, so is she. That is the hard task. You love Ellana, that much is clear, but will you love the Commander of the Dales, the Heart of its People? Will you be able to love that person?”

Mahanon glances at him over his shoulder, “She will do things you don’t like. At times she will be cruel to you. She may even cast you aside for another more useful tool. She will say things, you will watch her do things, command and order things that will push against everything you believe. Knowing that, knowing that she will not always put you first or second or even third or fourth, knowing that it is not within her power or control to support you as you support her, knowing that she does not belong to you, or to anyone, but a higher purpose that is not necessarily  _better_  do you think you could still love her?”

Bull meets Mahanon’s dark gaze with his own.

“I am from the Qun,” Bull says, “I was born to it, and I understand breathing a cause better than most can. You know what I am and what I have done, what I am capable of. Don’t do  _me_  the disservice of asking that question anyway.”

Mahanon’s smile is a few notches to the side of Ellana’s. The same breed of secrecy and pleasure, just a different color and pattern.

“I’m glad that I fought for her to keep you then,” Mahanon says, the same soft as Ellana’s voice when she whispers gentle things to her hart, “I am glad of it.”


	213. Chapter 213

Cullen thinks that he's beginning to understand why Mia is so concerned about his general mental health and the possibility of him becoming a dangerously animal-obsessed hermit in the woods

There is a stunningly beautiful woman sleeping next to him in his bed and Cullen’s attention is focused on the cat bed, where his cat giving him extremely pitiful looks. Well, one cat is. The other just looks disturbingly aware of the situation and finds it entirely pleasing to his sense of humor.

The Iron Bull is a person in a cat’s body and there has been absolutely  _nothing_  in Cullen’s history being the Iron Bull’s owner that has convinced him otherwise.

As if to mock his life, Evelyn shifts a little behind him, seeking out heat until she ends up pressed against his back, face against his shoulder.

“What?” She yawns, her breath a warm flush against his shoulder through his nightshirt. “What’s wrong? I feel something’s wrong.”

“My cat,” Cullen says and then quickly wrenches his hand out from under the covers and holds his palm out flat, “Lavellan  _no._ ”

And because cats aren’t dogs and generally don’t get trained to the same degree - as Leliana would say, cats are the ones used to  _doing_  the training of others - Lavellan immediately starts to cry pitifully.

Cullen sighs and slowly extracts himself from the warmth of the bed and Evelyn in order to reach Lavellan and gently scoop her up against his chest, bringing her back to bed.

“I don’t even know why she’s so upset, she doesn’t sleep at night anyway,” Cullen says as he quickly gets back under the covers, depositing Lavellan next to Evelyn’s face.

Evelyn’s face moves from sleepy amusement to delight as she gently pets Lavellan who’s now started to curl up against Evelyn’s chin like a small cat-loaf, still crying.

Cullen feels the mattress dip when the Iron Bull jumps up by their feet and lies down over them.

Less a cat-loaf, more a flesh-prison.

“You spoiled her, that’s why,” Evelyn says as Lavellan continues to bury ever deeper into pillows, Evelyn’s hair, and the mattress. “You’re the only person I know who  _tucks their cat in at night_.”

“I don’t!” Cullen protests. “I go to bed and I find her like that! I just never had a reason to move her before.”

“I’m guessing that I ought to be glad that she doesn’t hold grudges when people steal her spot in your bed,” Evelyn muses, eyebrow raising up, “Thought I wouldn’t be able to say the same for myself.”

Cullen covers his face with his hand.

One more woman in his life to tease him mercilessly. Perhaps Rylen is right and he really is just a masochist.

Last night Cullen had been nervous enough about inviting Evelyn to sleep over - to share his bed with him, no less - and he thinks she had been nervous too. There were no plans for…other intimacies aside from sharing space, but still. It is something of a  _move_ in a relationship.

And then there had been his cat, lying down in the middle of his bed, her paws up over the edge of the blanket, her favorite stuffed bunny next to her, fast asleep looking like an absurdly small thing resting against one of his pillows.

Cullen had gently, carefully, and trying to convey as much love and support as possible, picked her up and transferred her - along with her toy rabbit - onto the cat bed that the Iron Bull would sometimes deign to use on the floor.

Lavellan woke up instantly and started to try and cling to his arms, mewing confusedly.

After three increasingly embarrassing attempts at getting her to stay, Cullen surrendered and went to fetch the Iron Bull.

The Iron Bull, who had happened to be watching these proceedings from the doorway, wound around Evelyn’s legs and purring for attention.

Eventually the Iron Bull picked Lavellan up by the back of the neck and taken her out of the room to wherever the rest of his mysterious stray-adoptee’s are kept - Maker help him, Cullen has  _no idea_  where the other  _million_  cats his cat has adopted go at night - and returned promptly to fetch Lavellan’s sleeping bunny.

Somewhere in the early hours of the morning Cullen heard the door get nudged open and when he looked to check the Iron Bull and Lavellan, and Lavellan’s rabbit, were curled up in the cat bed underneath the thick blanket Cullen keeps next to the thing just in case.

“Well, as long as she’s not cross with me for stealing the bed,” Evelyn says. Cullen sighs and runs a finger down Lavellan’s back. “Maybe she’d take to it better if I brought my own cat?”

“You have a cat?”

“Well. It’s more Max’s cat than mine. He kept the cat after I moved out.”

“Who’s Max?”

“My cousin,” Evelyn says. “Max has a therapy cat, too. He. Um. Templar training didn’t go so well with him. He never got to the lyrium part, but there were…other things at the time.”

“Ah,” Cullen says and doesn’t press. He watches as Evelyn’s face grows fond, and sad, and sorry as she strokes her knuckles down over Lavellan’s little back. “What’s one more cat in this house, anyway.”

Evelyn snorts a laugh and Lavellan raises a paw to bat at Evelyn’s face as if to say,  _no laughing, I’m being sad here_.

“I’ve been meaning to ask about that… _how did_ you get so many cats?”

“They aren’t even mine. They’re his,” Cullen says, twitching his foot a little. To his surprise his foot has already gone numb with loss of circulation. The Iron Bull doesn’t even acknowledge this movement underneath his bulk. “Bull,  _move_. Please.”

The Iron Bull twists one slightly ragged ear towards him and then twists it away, uninterested.

“Please move,” Evelyn says and the Iron Bull slowly gets up and arranges himself between their legs instead of over them. Evelyn laughs, using her foot to nudge the Iron Bull, “You’re such a ladies cat, aren’t you? But we all know who your favorite lady cat is.”

Bull flicks his tail at them and curls up to go to sleep.

Lavellan meows very loudly,  _pay attention to me!_

“Yes, yes,” Evelyn sighs, turning back to the cat tucked by her neck, “I’m sorry Cullen kicked you out of bed. It  _was_  terribly mean of him, wasn’t it?”

“As if you had no part in it,” Cullen rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t the one who kept putting her down. If you asked me, I would have gladly let her stay right where she was,” Evelyn replies. “Who am I to displace the queen of the house?”


	214. Chapter 214

“Alright, send in the unlicensed animagus and everyone pretend you didn’t see shit,” Bull says, gesturing for Maxwell to go on ahead. “In our reports we’re just going to write down that we saw the weirdest thing ever, and that we saw a this really annoying bird fly into the charmed and enchanted warehouse in order to drag out some fraudulent charmers as a distraction. Since apparently  _someone_  tipped them off and they’re now on alert for anything on two legs and generally upright in position.”

Everyone is looking expectantly at Maxwell and Maxwell is looking at himself expectantly because his soul has just left his body and is now watching the proceedings like it has nothing to do with this situation and it’s happening to someone else entirely.

“Being unlicensed animagus is a very serious crime and,” Maxwell starts. He doesn’t finish because the Iron Bull rolls his one eye so hard that Maxwell feels it in his brain.

“Relax greenhorn,” Krem says, “No one’s going to snitch on you. The Ministry doesn’t give a fuck. Lots of things can slide under the radar. Also? We’ve got loads of experience finding animagi and various other unregistered special people.”

Krem points at Dalish.

Dalish points at Grim.

Grim gestures in the direction of where Hawke’s team is waiting for the sign to move in.

Maxwell makes a face, “How did you know what it is anyway?”

Bull shrugs one shoulder. “Am I wrong?”

It wasn’t even Maxwell’s idea. This entire ordeal of being an unlicensed animagus was not Maxwell’s idea and he can’t stress that further.

It wasn’t even Ellana’s.

It was Kaaras’.

It was the summer before their seventh year and they were bored out of their skulls. Kaaras had wanted to do something risky, something dangerous, something exciting. Something, Maxwell has a lingering suspicion of, that would help shake off the lingering effects of almost dying multiple times at school for sport and other people’s entertainment. That had been just after their fifth year but Maxwell knows now that that sort of thing never really leaves you. It was only nine months and altogether counted perhaps maybe not even twelve hours. But Maxwell still feels the heat from the second trial as the magical dimension space filled with fire closed in around him.

He can still feel Ellana’s sweat-slicked skin slipping from his grasp.

Ellana had, for once, been incredibly reasonable and suggested that they attempt to create a Philosopher’s stone. It would have been a fun mental exercise.

Maxwell, for once, had been incredibly practical and suggested they attempt legilimency.  That would have been a literal mental exercise.

And then Kaaras shot straight out of the unexpected and said,  _let’s try to become animagi_.

Needless to say, it did not take Ellana and Maxwell much convincing to say yes.

(“It can’t be harder than truth potions,” Ellana had said, causing Maxwell and Kaaras to exchange silent looks of concern over  _why_ Ellana had reason to be brewing truth potions to start with.)

At the end of it there were much surprises to be had and if they hadn’t been the best of friends before they certainly were then.

Kaaras surprised everyone by coming out of it a strong shouldered, boldly colored tiger with large paws, a piercing gaze, and dizzying stripes. Big, obvious,  _dangerous_  and attention demanding.

Maxwell also surprised everyone by emerging much smaller than they all thought he’d be, and with an incredible degree of mobility and versatility. Unobtrusive, common, ominous, and slightly unnerving.

(“Of course,” Kaaras has mused, “You would still be something with the ability to talk.”

“I tried,” Maxwell says, “Talking is hard in that form. Also thoughts and words are weird in general.”

“You can be your own mail carrier,” Ellana said, “Think of how great an excuse that can be when used right. Also, you can now probably talk to Chipper. Go ask him right now why he always takes so long with my parcels from home. I know he’s detouring somewhere. I just can’t figure out where.”)

Ellana surprised no one as she slid between them, scales matte and gray and hypnotic in their repetition. Her gums when she opened her mouth were as black as Kaaras’ stripes, as black as Maxwell’s feathers.

Ellana has always been the most honest, of the three of them. However strange that would seem to outsiders to their circle of three. There’s no one in the world more honest than a Slytherin looking to make a point.

All three of them different sorts of danger, wound up together.

Maxwell remembers them curling into each other. Kaaras huge in Maxwell’s shifted form, world-swallowing. And Ellana a sinuous line of not-quite matching black that twisted over Kaaras’ belly and back as she curled herself around him. And Maxwell over both of them, flapping his wings for balance before giving up and just rolling down until he was cradled in the curl of Kaaras’ body as the three of them settled into each other and themselves, basking in the thing they had just accomplished.

“Relax, newbie, no one is judging. Go do your thing and mess with their heads until they come  _away_ from the warehouse of dangerous charmed materials,” Rocky says, punching Maxwell’s hip. “And then get the fuck out of dodge, because I’m going to wreck this place so bad - “

“We need evidence,” Bull says.

“So…gently that the paperwork will only be a touch singed?”

“Better,” Bull says, “Get a move on before Hawke’s team gets ansty. I heard Carver’s off of medical leave and that brat is probably just spoiling to get this started. And given the fact that Hawke has the unfair advantage of being  _friends_  with this section’s main officer I don’t want to give them an excuse to take over. ”

“You heard the Chief.”

Maxwell shrugs and shrugs again. He shrugs off the shape of Trevelyan and shrugs into the shape of Maxwell. There’s a moment of  _lurching_  where Maxwell’s body does not keep up with his mind and he is weightless and falling.

But his body remembers and he’s flapping his wings, the world large before him, and full of possibility for  _anything_  he can think of.

Maxwell caws out once, considers pecking at Krem’s head - mussing his hair up - but decides not to. The thought of going over to where Ellana is right now also strikes him but he decides against that, too.

The revelation that the Iron Bull and the rest of them definitely know that they’re illegal animagi can wait for after this. Ellana most likely would not want to be told right now, out in the open.

Maxwell caws out again and Dalish waves him off but he’s already beyond her, beyond their reach, bleeding darkness out into the night sky.


	215. Chapter 215

“What is the reason for which you are building this house? Specifically…like this?”, Malika asks, pen and notepad ready as the looming man shrugs, eye fixed on the construction in front of them.

“No comment, sorry kid.”

“You have to have a comment. Everyone’s talking about this house. It’s been under construction for four years and it looks like a puzzle box. None of it even makes sense.”

The man shrugs one large shoulder, arms crossed before he barks out, “Hey, she said  _fuschia, not chartreuse_. Are you colorblind? I swear that I had everyone who had even a  _doubt_  about being colorblind moved from the painting crew. Did you  _lie to me_?”

Malika watches as the crew member currently painting a window-sill chartreuse proudly presents the man the middle finger. Malika does not think she would be so confident about flipping off someone as big, intimidating, and all around imposing as the Iron Bull. Maybe it’s a distance thing. Maybe the person feels braver because he’s two stories up and several yards away.

No, Malika is pretty sure she’d still be too intimidated to do anything.

“Can you tell me anything?”

“Which paper are you even from?”

“I’m from a podcast, not a paper.”

The Iron Bull turns down and looks at her, “A podcast.”

“Yeah, it’s like radio but - “

“I know what a podcast is, there’s just usually some sort of audio recorder for that.” There’s a pointed glance down at Malika’s hands and her yellow notepad.

“Oh,” Malika says, grinning, “This is just the background research. The recording part comes later. Please? It’s for school. I’m a broadcasting and journalist student and this would like - make my semester. Please?”

The Iron Bull sighs, shoulders sagging, “We’re building the house like this because those are the orders we were given by the Boss.”

“The Boss?” Malika starts writing, “Who’s that?”

“Lavellan,” Bull says, “The owner of the property. Her orders are to build a house that never stops, to make it as confusing and impossible and improbable as physically possible, and to never, ever, allow construction to stop. Even if we have to tear down old parts to rebuild again.”

“Why did you take this job?”

The Iron Bull tilts his head, eyebrows raising on his forehead, “I’m her go-to person. If she asks for something I get it for her. That’s how it’s been for years. This isn’t new. This is just a new part of the job. More recent. Job parameters change. That’s expected. As long as she pays.”

“But aren’t you the main architect for the house also?” Malika asks, jotting down a note to look deeper into the Iron Bull and Lavellan’s history.

“A man’s got to have hobbies,” Bull says, “And sometimes those hobbies can turn into job opportunities. The Boss wants an impossible house? I’ll build her an impossible -  _are those fucking buttresses? What century do you live in? Fuck on off, that’s not what those are supposed to be -_ I’ll build her an impossible house.”

The Iron Bull is currently glaring at a very far off point some five stories up that Malika can’t see very clearly without her glasses, which she’d forgotten at home. She has her prescription sunglasses but those make her feel like a douche if she wears them while talking to people like this.

“Do you know why your boss wants an always growing and changing house?”

“Yes.”

Malika’s pen waits for further explanation. The Iron Bull remains silent.

“If you want to know, you’re going to have to ask her. I don’t make it a habit of revealing personal information to anyone who asks.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Bull gestures towards the house, “If you can find her. Ask someone to go with you. Don’t worry about getting lost. As long as you can find a window to yell out of you’ll be fine. All of us get lost in there.”

“Even you?”

The Iron Bull’s grin is a touch roguish, “There are parts of the house that I haven’t even touched, kid.”

Malika goes towards the house, and one of the crew members, the one who flipped the Iron Bull off earlier clambers down the building’s many odd angles and waves at her.

“Hey, looking to meet the Boss?” The man says, “I’m Krem. You from a paper or something?”

“Podcast, the recording part I do later. Is it okay for you to just leave your post like that?”

“What’s he going to do? Fire me?” Krem rolls his eyes, claps her on the shoulder, “I’m good. Don’t worry about it. Anyway, you’re looking for the Boss, right?”

“Lavellan? Yes, please. Can you tell me about this house? Why you’re building it like this?”

“Because the Boss asked nicely and the Chief is a sucker for it,” Krem says.

“The Chief, that’s the Iron Bull?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re building it…just because she asked you to?”

Krem scratches his jaw, picking at a flake of paint, and he answers slowly, “No. Not quite because she  _asked_  us to. More like…well. You could just ask her.”

“What’s she like? Lavellan?”

“A person.”

“Come on,  _please?”_ Malika might sound a little whiney but sometimes that’s what you need to get people to talk to you. “Give me something.”

Krem shrugs, “She’s…not the same person she was before.”

“Before? Before what?”

“Before this house,” Krem says, “Alright, just up ahead are her personal rooms. Well. More personal than the rest of the house, I guess. The ones she uses more than she doesn’t. Hey, Boss? Boss? You around?”

One of the doors that seems to fit into an improbably shrunken and narrow hallway swings open - it swings open the opposite way all the other doors swing - and a woman emerges, crouching through the doorway before straightening up as she walks through the widening hallway.

“I’m here, is something wrong?”

“Why do you always assume something’s wrong whenever I call for you?”

“Because Bull always sends you when something’s wrong because he thinks I’ll make you take the blame for it,” Lavellan says, not unkindly.

She’s younger than Malika thought.

And pretty. Very pretty.

Lavellan turns towards her, “And who is this?”

“She’s a podcast person,” Krem says.

“With a pen and paper?”

“The recording part comes later,” Malika and Krem say at the same time.

Krem winks at her, “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Well,” Lavellan says, giving Malika a speculative look, “I suppose we better find somewhere to talk then. Come on. The walls have ears and eyes.”

Malika glances around. With the impossibility of this house, somehow she seems to expect actual ears and eyes.

Lavellan doesn’t even laugh at her, she just nods and gestures for her to follow.

“Watch your step,” Lavellan says, “In these parts of the house - the older parts - you don’t know what will follow you. Not even I know what’s gotten in.”


	216. Chapter 216

“I don’t think Solas is dead,” Ellana says as she stares out the window.

“You buried him,” Bull says, slowly taking off his boots. “Six feet under. His casket was  _cemented_  closed. With  _lead_  lining. He’s not getting up again after that. After all the stuff you had done to the body after to make sure.”

If he were to list the full measures of the things they had done to Solas’ body to make sure he wasn’t coming back they would be fined or arrested or  _something_  for gross mutilation. Even if it was a dead body.

“Then why does it feel like he’s still alive?” Ellana asks.

“That’ll change,” Bull tells her, sighing as he rests forward on his elbows, the weight of his body pressing into his thighs through his bones as he runs a hand over his neck. “Boss. Ellana. He’s dead. It’s over.”

“No,” Ellana shakes her head, but lets the curtains fall, blotting out the night, “I don’t think it is. He wouldn’t have made it so easy.”

As if Solas’ death was  _easy_.

But Ellana comes to bed, she comes to him, and she folds into him without resistance and they sleep away the gray shock of today.

Solas is dead and buried. They’re free of him and that place.

If only things could be so simple. If only things could stay so logical.

If only Ellana weren’t always right.

“There have been five deaths on the property,” Skinner reports a week later. “Not animal deaths.  _People_  deaths. I’d say murders, but I don’t even know if this was…I don’t know what this was.”

Bull holds his hand out and she gives him the pictures. Gruesome. Almost animal.

“Did anyone tell the Boss?” He asks and Skinner shakes her head.

“Thought you might want first crack at it,” Skinner says, eyes as sharp as the words she isn’t saying. “The deaths are getting further and further from the center of the property.”

“Who’s even going there?”

“I don’t know who they are or why. We’d have to catch one of them alive before whatever it was killing them gets to them.”

And risk one of their own? Fucking forget it.

Bull sighs and passes his hand over his face, blotting out the pictures from his eyes even if they’re already in his head.

“How big is this?” He asks, slightly shaking the glossy prints.

“Local news and papers so far,” Skinner says. “Maybe even county. If it gets any bigger it’ll be state and then national.”

Knowing Ellana, she’s probably going to be on alert for months. Years, possibly.

Bull has no intention of hiding this from her, but he would have liked it if he could possibly control the information a little better. Break it to her in a slightly less,  _you were right, Solas is a bag of dicks who can’t die_  way.

“Alright,” Bull says, “I’ll tell her tonight.”

Ellana’s schedule for the day is packed with meetings on dividing up Solas’ assets and doing damage control for the bullshit he’s left behind.

He’s left her land, money, several items of dubious import and origin, as well as a legacy of questionable morals to wrestle with. She’ll never want for anything for the rest of her life, but she’ll also spend the rest of her life knowing that Solas has this over her. This  _debt_.

A debt she cannot repay because the man  _died_ without giving her a chance to refuse it.

Bull waits until they’ve finished eating, because if he tells her before she won’t eat for maybe days because of nausea and revulsion. He tells her after while they’re sitting in the living area of their temporary hotel room.

Bull thinks about their apartment, several cities and states and nations away, and he has a soft realization that they’re never going to see it again.

They can never return to the life they left paused to handle this.

They have slipped quietly from the domesticity of one genre to the ragged and relentless pacing of another.

“You were right,” Bull says, like that could somehow make this easier to swallow, like mixing vodka with soda or juice, “He didn’t make it easy.”

Ellana’s eyes go from tired and unguarded to sharp and anticipatory in less than a heartbeat. When she moves and looks like that he can see the scars Solas’ influence has left on her. This is a woman who would never, in her life, been able to live quietly. Not with that kind of sharp hidden behind flimsy rayon and cotton.

“Show me,” Ellana says and Bull hands her the pictures and the reports he had Grim and Skinner dig up and clear up of useless details.

Ellana takes her time with the images. She takes less time with the reports.

“We need to go back. I need to take care of this,” Ellana says, “If he won’t have the decency stay dead I can at least make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else with his willfulness. This is my responsibility.”

Her mouth curves downward, scowling.

It isn’t her responsibility, everyone knows it. Ellana most of all. But she has never been able to walk away from a problem once given to her.

“And how will we know he won’t kill  _us_?” There are only so many times you can escape a trap that the universe has placed for you. “This… _ghost_  doesn’t seem very discriminating. I know he never tried to kill us when he was alive but…”

Ellana raises her eyes from the paper in her hands to him and smiles, a wicked wolf thing, “There is more than one way to skin a wolf, the Iron Bull. I don’t know what this apparition’s goal is, or what it’s general intent in persisting after death is. But he seems to want to leave, or move, or continue to do as he pleases. And what he pleases is not what pleases me. We’re going to trap him like a rat. He won’t let me escape from him? Fine. I dare him to try and escape from  _me_.”


	217. Chapter 217

When Bull comes home, shoulder aching from the bruise he got hitting the stairs, he finds Ellana on the way to getting an ice pack.

She’s sitting at their kitchen table with a mug in her hands and at his place there’s a brand new bottle of whiskey and a shot glass.

“We need to talk,” Ellana says, “I bought better ice packs, by the way. The old ones were kind of…bloody.”

“Thanks,” Bull says, grabbing one of them out of the freezer and wrapping it in the dish towel before sitting down at the table with her.

She pours him a shot.

“Not that I’m not down for some drinking,” Bull says, “But what kind of talk are we about to have that requires that I get buzzed first?”

“I need to quit my job,” Ellana says, “That’s the kind of conversation we’re about to have.”

Bull takes the shot and pours himself another, taking that one, too, and then he pours a third and passes it to her.

Ellana waves her hand, “No. I’ve got some.”

She gestures to the mug.

Bull takes the third shot.

After the burning is done, Bull sighs out and says, “Alright. Why are you quitting your job? You love those kids. You love your job.”

Bull can’t imagine his wife not being an elementary school teacher. He can’t imagine her not spending at least three hours at the craft store every weekend picking out new glitter or staring at aisles of colored paper and stickers thinking about a new project to illustrate some sort of lesson or complex theory to her little kiddies. Bull can’t imagine her not having her phone constantly full of pictures of the stuff her kids make in class.

Bull can’t imagine a holiday where she doesn’t come home hauling glitter and tinsel and fuzzy pom-poms by the armful to the car and back to the house.

Ellana loves her job, she loves what she does, and she loves the children she meets every new school year.

“Because,” Ellana says, “I can’t keep showing up to work looking like this. It sets a bad example. They’re going to think that one, it’s alright for your significant other to beat you, and two, cops beat people up.”

Bull closes his hands together and waits for her to explain further.

“Of course I told the that you didn’t hurt me,” Ellana says, “But there are only so many times I can call in sick and turn up looking bruised to hell and back before they stop believing that. They’re kids, not stupid. And the administrative staff is also concerned. You play your stereotypes too well.”

“Dumb cop?”

“Big muscle Qunari cop.”

“Do they know that I’m no longer a cop?”

“They know you’re no longer a cop but I haven’t told them you’ve gone back to the Inquisition - officially, this time - so they just think you’re unemployed,” Ellana gives him a significant look and Bull rubs his face with his hand. She reaches out and touches her fingers to his shoulder. “I know you’d never hurt me. All of our friends and family know you’d never hurt me. These people don’t know us. And this is just…one of the fall-out parts of that.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Bull says, “You don’t need to quit your job. We can move you elsewhere. Start somewhere else.”

“Bull, we’ve just landed ourselves in the middle of a crime war,” Ellana says, “And we both have huge targets right on our backs. It’d be the same thing if I started working elsewhere, maybe worse. I don’t want to quit. I don’t. But the alternative is stay and let these kids build negative impressions and let people think bad things of you  _and_  me. I can’t do that. Not to them, not to us.”

Bull turns his chair and holds his arm out and Ellana stands, crossing the small space to put her arms around his neck and bow her head over his. Bull curls his arm around her waist and squeezes.

“I’m sorry,” He says.

She’s right. He know she’s right.

He just wishes that she wasn’t. That this didn’t take everything from her. He wants a lot of things for her.

“I’m going to submit my resignation, for personal reasons,” Ellana says, running her thumb over his jaw as she leans against him, “I don’t know how this process will work. I’ve worked there for years. I - “

He hears her throat click closed and he stands up, now, pulling her fully into his arms, his chest, ice pack abandoned on the table.

“Ellana,” He says, “This won’t be forever. I swear it’s not. Watch. Trevelyan and the rest are going to take care of this. And it will be over. Have you ever seen her leave something half done? Aside from that train wreck of a house?”

Ellana sniffs, a wet laugh as she presses her face to his chest, “Well. I wasn’t going to say it, but since you did…what is with that shrub line? It’s spaced  _so badly_.”

“You’d think that after seeing the two of us completely redo this house from literal foundations to top they’d know who to ask for home improvement advice,” Bull says, running his palm over the back of her head. “We’ll repay them by ripping up their yard. No one would even miss it.”

“We could redo their porch. That porch swing? So last season.”

“We’ve got loads of time. Might as well tackle that roof tile. It’s like they aren’t even trying,” Bull says.

“Get the swatches,” Ellana says, stepping away from him and wiping her wrist over her eyes, “I’ll get dinner ready.”

“Living room?” Bull says as he gently brushes her cheek with his thumb and picks his icepack back up, turning for the garage to find the thick box filled with paint swatches.

“Well the swatches aren’t fitting on the kitchen table, that’s for sure. Be careful when you move the coffee table.”


	218. Chapter 218

“Maybe the kid has more common sense than either of us and saw the place and felt like he’d get tetanus if he looked at it wrong,” Bull says as he uses a cookie cutter to cut Cole’s grilled cheese sandwich into a star. “No, Cole. You’re not going to get tetanus from looking at our new house.”

Cole looks slightly relieved and continues setting the table looking much more secure in the knowledge that he won’t get some sort of disease by looking at the house Ellana and Bull just bought.

“I can’t believe you’d rather stay in  _Kirkwall_ ,” Ellana says, frowning as she stirs the soup on the stove, hand on her hip and wooden spoon held in her hand like she’s ready to fling it across the room and maybe at Cole. “Kirkwall, Cole.  _Kirkwall_.”

“I like it,” Cole says, shrugging and examining his reflection in a spoon, “It’s interesting. Varric knows all the interesting places and people. Have you been to Kirkwall?”

“I’ve been to Kirkwall. But wouldn’t you much rather live with me, Cole?” Ellana says, “I’m your favorite big sister.”

“You’re his only big sister,” Bull says as he puts two star-shaped grilled cheese sandwiches onto a plate and holds it out for Cole to take, “And that’s only because you rigged the program so you’d get assigned to each other.”

“It’s true, but you don’t have to say it like that,” Ellana says, “I  _nudged_  the system into the best possible outcome.”

“I love you,” Cole says slowly as he smiles down at his star-shaped sandwiches, “But I don’t want to live with you and the Iron Bull.”

“He’s a teenager and I have to remind myself he doesn’t mean it when he says things like that,” Ellana says. “You didn’t mind living with me before.”

“He didn’t live with you, Ellana, he lived one apartment over from you and thus could escape whenever he wanted,” Bull says in the interest of keeping the story factual. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to live with us either.”

Ellana looks incredibly betrayed as she switches the spoon for a ladle and starts dispensing soup into bowls.

“You two are,” Cole makes a face, and does an incredibly powerful imitation of Cassandra, “ _Ugh_.”

“He means domestic,” Bull translates, “We’re stupidly domestic.”

“But you could have your own room and everything, Cole,” Ellana says, “You even said you liked the house when you saw it.”

Cole did say he liked the house. Good to know that whatever Ellana sees in the place isn’t just entirely her.

(“A solid foundation to build up instead of down,” Cole had nodded, smiling gently and quietly taking Ellana’s hand in his as she led him around the property. “A place of your own, just for you, where no one else can reach. Unspoiled. It calls you. I like it. It suits you. It will make you happy. It will set you free.”)

“I like Kirkwall. I like college. I like learning things. I’m learning lots of things about lots of different subjects,” Cole says, putting his hands around the bowl to soak in the heat.

Cole and Ellana both have perpetually freezing extremities that they both like to stick against him to leech heat. Like heat leeches.

“You told me it’s good to go away from home,” Cole says as Ellana pours him a glass of milk, “That you truly learn about what home is if you leave it. That that’s what you had to do.”

“I didn't think you’d stay away forever. And didn’t I tell you not to be like me? That I’m a terrible example?,” Ellana sighs, taking her seat next to him and fondly running a hand through his long bangs, “You need a haircut.”

“Varric says I look cool. Isabela says I look like a trap. What do you think she means by that?”

“Varric’s got shit taste, look at his books. Isabela is right and it’s sort of a compliment, don’t worry about it,” Bull says. “Anyway, let the kid have his college experience. When he comes back for the summer he’ll see how amazing our new house is - especially since it won’t look like a public health hazard by that time,  _hopefully_  - and then he’ll probably want to stay over for a few nights before going back to Kirkwall as he lives his best and fullest life.”

“I just don’t understand  _why Kirkwall_ ,” Ellana says.

Cole shrugs and stares at his sandwich, turning it this way and that before deciding on which point to start on, “Varric’s friends are nice. I think I like Varric’s friends more than I like Kirkwall.”

“Well. As long as you aren’t in love with the city itself,” Ellana sighs, “Then I guess it’s alright.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Kirkwall the city,” Bull says, “I’d argue the problem is with the people of Kirkwall and maybe Cole’s in trouble if it’s the people he’s getting attached to.”

“Varric’s got good people.”

“Varric’s got four Hawke siblings,” Bull says, “Anyway, kid. You’re getting a room in the house whether you stay there or not, so maybe start thinking on stuff you’d like in there.”

“A rabbit,” Cole says immediately. “I can’t have one at Varric’s house. Hawke’s dog is always there and Hawke’s dog scares the rabbits. I don’t want them to be scared.”

“But what if I get a dog?” Ellana asks playfully.

Cole looks well and truly puzzled by this, “Can my room be a rabbit hatch outside?”

“Okay, you can have an outside room for a rabbit hatch, but what about your inside room?” Ellana says.

Cole shrugs, “I just want a rabbit. Oh, could we have nugs? Could I have a nug?”

“Absolutely not,” Ellana says.

“Not with those little hands,” Bull says, “Just visit Leliana if you want to see nugs.”

Cole sighs, a little forlorn, “But…the rabbits? Can there be rabbits? Please?”

“Yes on the rabbits, no on the nugs,” Bull confirms, “Now onto the serious stuff. How’s school? Learn anything fun? Anything worth sharing with the rest of us?”

Cole hums and crunches down on his sandwich as he thinks.

“I didn’t learn this in school, but Anders told me that sometimes a person’s penis can point to an injury on an x-ray,” Cole says. “Does that count as something worth sharing? Do you think that’s something that would help more people if they knew about it?”

Bull laughs, “ _Nice_.”


	219. Chapter 219

The only other bot that Dagna is working on is CUL-N, and the former Templar ‘droid is quietly powered down into a sleep cycle in a corner of her workshop. Bull traces the pattern of the burn-out from the lyrium power lines going through CUL-N’s frame. Someday CUL-N is going to get all of those lines replaced.

But he’ll never forget the power of a lyrium fuel-cell. That shit is hard, and that shit is mean.

Bull sometimes wonders why the Qun didn’t use it as a fuel cell themselves. He wonders if he would still be part of the Qun forces if  _he_  had a lyrium power cell instead of a standard partial-sol.

El-ana laughs in delight over the array of new arms that Dagna has prepared for her. Her face coating is currently a pale green-blue speckled with bright orange spots. When she sees the arms her face ripples as her coating changes to a soft and gentle yellow with a faint orange around the edges. Like her face is a two dimensional sun.

“Oh, Dagna,” El-ana says, sitting herself down on the nearest work bench and starting to get her arm ready for diagnostics and compatibility tests, “You really shouldn’t have. I still feel bad about burning out that last one. You said Dorian even helped smuggle it out of Tevinter.”

“Between you and me,” Dagna says, multiple lenses and loops folding in front of her face and aligning themselves as she starts the delicate work of lining up each of El-ana’s many, many wires and circuits with the first arm she has prepared, “I think Dorian likes the challenge of smuggling things past Tevinter’s border patrols. Did you know he sent me  _three_  of his prototype slow downs in the past drop? Three, El-ana. It’s like he’s just flipping off the entire Imperium at this point. I don’t think he wants to reshape it so much as he wants to watch the entire place go down hard.”

“Do you think he’s still mad about how they tried to scrub him clean?” El-ana asks.

Bull rolls his eye upwards and catches sight of COL’s frame lingering in Dagna’s workshop rafters. Bull raises a hand and waves.

COL’s frame isn’t much to look at aside from a single screen, the basic parts for movement, and some very lethal additions that aren’t even disguised behind plates or panels. Bull can appreciate that kind of simplicity.

COL waves back and Bull feels the whisper of COL asking for permission to establish connection.

Bull lets him in.

“You here for Rutherford?” Bull asks. It always takes COL a few seconds to reply back - some sort of noise in the transmission of code that Bull isn’t sure he understands. It’s not  _his_  transmission, and from what they can tell there’s nothing wrong with  _COL’s_  transmission, but they aren’t willing to dive deeper into it and figure out what’s wrong in COL’s source code. It’s already messed up as it is.

“No,” COL replies, “I heard Sera tell Varric that you and El-ana would be here.”

“Did you  _hear_  her say that, or did you  _hear_  her say that?” Bull asks.

COL sends back a sort of garbled sound of static and a high frequency whine that Bull translates into a shrug.

“You can’t just keep going into other people’s channels without permission,” Bull says, “That’s what gets you into trouble. And I know that we joke that you’re trouble, but there’s only so much trouble that Pentaghast the others can keep off you.”

COL sends another frequency, this one lower but grating. A different sort of shrug.

“How’s Sera?” Bull asks.

“All of her biometric scans show normal readouts,” COL replies.

“You also can’t just scan people without their permission.”

“I can’t help it. You’re always scanning El-ana,” COL says.

“That’s different. I have El-ana’s permission to keep an eye on her,” Bull says. “In fact she’ll ask me about how her systems and performance looks every half hour if I don’t drop in a casual comment about it. Speaking of - normal readouts, Boss. No unusual activity.”

El-ana gives him a thumbs up and continues talking to Dagna about the latest storm that she and Bull had to walk through to get to this outpost.

Bull goes around back, away from the service area to where Dagna keeps her spare parts and the tools she keeps for specific jobs, and starts looking around for the stuff he’d need to check up and tune his shoulder.

She has a few spare parts for him, hopefully he won’t need them. Ideally it’s just sand and possible degradation of his protective coats. That can be fixed easy.

Bull likes Dagna. For a brain-tech she’s alright. Incredibly perky and easily obsessed with things, but she’s good. She’s probably the only brain-tech he’d let into his systems. But the members of the Inquisition’s network aren’t the only people who come to Dagna’s workshop and Bull would greatly prefer to having El-ana being here for longer than necessary.

They aren’t wanted for immediate scrubbing and scrapping anymore, but there are only so many parts that Bull’s willing to risk before he calls it quits.

“I’m sorry, Dagna”, he hears El-ana say, sighing out a distorted syllable, “These just aren’t compatible with me. I don’t know why. Maybe something in me rejects them?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Dagna says. Bull’s sensors indicate a high heat signature and he sticks his head out around the doorframe to look.

She’s overloaded the arm they were testing.

“And don’t think I don’t know about you, mister,” Dagna says, gesturing at him, “You sit your butt down on one of those work stations and don’t even think about cracking yourself open without me there. I’m on to you, mister suffer in silence.”

“Tattle,” Bull says as he passes them, depositing the few tools and cleaning supplies he grabbed on a work station table, dragging it behind him as he carefully lowers himself down and starts the process of disconnecting and turning off various systems so he can get his chassis open safely. It’s probably better if he checks the stuff on the inside before he checks the the shoulder.

El-ana laughs and Bull senses COL drawing closer, slowly folding himself down between the El-ana and Bull and entering a low power mode. COL’s display screen fades out to a single green dot in the center as his frame powers down.

“I think he was worried that you two would get turned around in the sand storm, it was pretty bad here,” Dagna says. “We lost communication signals and power lines. Couldn’t even connect to the network it was that bad.”

“Radiation?” El-ana asks.

“That and she other stuff,” Dagna says, “Magnetization, too. Signals were all screwed up. Got a foot of sand. I’m lucky I’ve got this place locked down for storms. Harding over in Sector Five came over looking for spare power cells. She’s lucky she’s part organic. Sector Five was hit so hard that it was like an EMP. Half the ‘droids and ‘bots in that sector are  _gone_. No saving those.”

“Is she okay?” Bull asks.

“Like I said, she’s lucky she’s part organic,” Dagna repeats. “And that her Boss is just that paranoid. They got her to a doctor in time, and then to a brain-tech. She’d just had a brain back-up a week ago. Between you and me? I think she’s going to have to convert over. Shame. There aren’t many natural born organics anymore.


	220. Chapter 220

“Evelyn, this is Ellana. Ellana, this is Evelyn. Ladies, the two of you are to be each other’s dates to the Saturnalia ball,” Maxwell says, nervously looking between the two girls and then at Kaaras.

Kaaras shrugs. There’s no way to measure how well something is going with Ellana Lavellan. If things look swell they probably aren’t and if they look awful they’re probably terrific.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Ellana says, holding out her hand.

Evelyn narrows her eyes, slowly taking Ellana’s hand as she says, “Likewise. Ellana.”

“I do hope the two of you will get along,” Maxwell says, slowly, “I think…I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted. Sort out color schemes so as to not clash and such. Kaaras and I will just be on the other side of the very wide lake doing the same thing, do  _not_  holler if you need us,  _ta_.”

Maxwell hooks his arm with Kaaras’ and practically sprints through the snow towards the other side of the lake.

Evelyn is amazed he didn’t think to skate across it.

“Evelyn, shall we take your cousins advice?” Ellana says, offering her arm.

Evelyn takes it and the two witches proceed to stroll down the opposite side of the lake, arm in arm, their hoods and cloaks quietly billowing behind them with the wind.

“Ellana,” Evelyn says slowly as they huddle closer together, heads bent, “Do tell me why my cousin thinks we’ve never met each other before and are complete strangers?”

Ellana pats Evelyn’s hand but offers no answer.

“Ellana,” Evelyn says, much firmer this time, “Tell me that you haven’t been keeping our friendship a secret from Maxwell because it would create a tactical advantage on your part in that you would have a very nasty surprise up your sleeve in case you needed it?”

“Well if you aren’t going to give me blackmail on him I don’t see why I can’t use you like this,” Ellana says, sounding unfairly  _huffy_  about it. “You can’t expect any less of me, Evelyn. I am what I am and that is  _practical_  beyond all regard.”

“Unless you’re being a dramatic prat,” Evelyn rolls her eyes.

Both of them stop, pressing closer as a particularly mean wind goes by, sending chills straight through them.

“Doesn’t he remember that we ordered the same make up from that mail order catalogue a month or so back?” Evelyn asks, “It’s the same shade and everything, too. Oh, that reminds me, how did that blusher work for you? I can’t tell if it’s because you’re cold or if it’s very vivid.”

“I’m not wearing it, this is genuine sanguinity at work,” Ellana says, “I’m wind-bitten and flush with it. I’ll wear it to the ball, though. We do actually need to color coordinate.”

“Are you going to tell Maxwell that we’ve been friends this entire time? Since two days after his name was spit out of the cup?”

“But Evelyn, my  _surprise advantage_ ,” Ellana sighs.

“I don’t know what you would even use it for,” Evelyn says, squeezing Ellana’s gloved hand in her own. “Now. About that ball.”

“I’m wearing dress robes,” Ellana says immediately, “My mother’s done up this fantastic set using some of my brother’s old clothes and it looks absolutely wonderful. She’s even sent me a new fur-trim cloak. I’ll show it to you when we get back. I would be wearing it now except I don’t want to ruin the surprise of it before the big day.”

“I’m sure it’s stunning and I can’t wait to see it. My mother and aunt want to send me some auburns and ombre dyed gowns as well as a new cut robe, white with a light glimmer charm to make it look almost like it has a rainbow sheen. I disapprove greatly. I don’t like this new fashion of charmed texture. Either get a fabric  _with_  the texture to start with or don’t do it at all. It doesn’t seem like you’re committing otherwise. Nor do I particularly like the idea of putting red-orange with white. It’s too strong for Saturnalia.”

“No, no, you’re absolutely right, Evelyn. And with your coloring? I’m sorry to say, Evelyn, that you’ve been missing some sun and it’s going to make you look entirely too… _drained_.”

“That’s what I was thinking too!” Evelyn says, waving her hand, “But my mother and aunts don’t listen to me. They’d think I know how to dress myself, I’ve only been doing it  _all my life_. Anyway, tell me more about your dress robes. I’m going to see if I can message my tailor and get them to do something I want instead of what my  _mother_  wants. Hopefully they like me, as a person, better than my mother, as a cheque.”

“I feel like they’d like you better, your mother - sorry to say - is a wretched person with terrible manners and I wouldn’t be surprised if I found out that people spit in her food,” Ellana says.

Evelyn starts to laugh, “ _About that_ , listen, I have to tell you about the time…”

(Across the lake, Maxwell suddenly hugs himself, shuddering.

“What is it? Do you want to go back inside?” Kaaras asks.

“I just had the strangest feeling,” Maxwell says, glancing around, “As though…as though the world was trying to warn me of some great impending doom. As though something terrible had just happened. Like…something dreadfully ominous has just fallen into place.”

“Like?”

“I wouldn’t be speaking in vague terms of  _doom upon the world_  if I knew, Kaaras. Honestly.”)

“Anyway, do tell,” Evelyn says, squeezing Ellana’s arm with hers and playfully nudging her with her shoulder, “The Iron Bull. Talk to me. You keep trying to escape me every time I bring up the subject, but you’re mooning and I know that you’re going to try and figure out a way to talk to him during the ball. What are your plans?”

“Evelyn, I wouldn’t  _dare_  plan anything.”

“Mhm.  _Right_.”

The two girls continue to walk on through the snow and wind for a few more moments of silence broken only by the sound of their bodies pushing on through shin-deep snow.

“Well?” Evelyn says.

“Alright, since you twisted me arm like that I suppose I have to tell you,” Ellana says immediately, “First I’m going to need everyone’s attention on someone who isn’t me so I can slip away easy. This is going to be simple because I’ve been practicing the art of misdirection for years. What’s going to be harder is that I’m going to have to use this on your cousin and Kaaras, and the two are expecting me to slip them out so they’ll be looking for me. That’s where you and your Cullen boy come in.”

“Oh no.”

“You asked, Evelyn.”


	221. Chapter 221

“What are you,” Ellana whispers when she opens her eyes, and finds the world of her Dreaming strange and unfamiliar, foreign and warped beyond her reach.

This is not the work of her creator, this is not Solas’ touch. The Dreaming under his hands was like jade, like smooth and cool stone, clear and almost liquid but frozen cold. The Dreaming was elegant and precise, every object and image eloquent and perfect and refined in every way.

The Dreaming that takes place within her, the small portion of the Dreaming she took away when she was born of it, has traces of this refined grace, yes. But it is its own, now. It is something unsteady, touched by the permanence of a physical body, of reality and its fixed variables. Ellana’s version of the Dreaming, carried within her always, was more like thin paper and shadows. Flickers of light upon glass. Water blotting on pages creating strange images disturbed by the slightest breath into something new.

This Dreaming is neither hers nor Solas. It’s  _someone else’s_.

Fear runs through her, fierce and cold, and Ellana seizes upon the Dreaming and tries to bend it to her will.

Her one redeeming feature, perhaps her own Quirk, her own special gift that was conceived upon her even beyond Solas’ gifts, is her  _indomitable will_.

Solas could not will her out of existence because her will was stronger than his own. So strong that it caused her to be made  _real_  and physical and  _permanent_. Ellana’s will was so strong it forced reality to bend to her impossibility.

But the Dreaming does not bend to her will. Or, it does, but it is quickly bent  _back_  by someone else.

“Hello sister-mother of my soul,” A voice says, calm and borrowing from Solas’ shades of untouchable and her own passionate  _heat_.

Ellana turns and the field of golden grass whispers with wind as she looks into a new face, familiar and not. It is her face, it is Solas’ face, it is their face fused together and then filtered to be made different. It is a hard image to understand.

“You are a dream,” Ellana says.

Did her power not work? Did Solas find a way past her? Is he dreaming again - she has to warn the others. She has to -

“Calm yourself,” The dream says, waving his hand imperiously as the scene changes. The golden field flows into an empty plaza and both of them are seated across from each other in iron chairs, a breeze blowing curtains like gauze and silk, and white cloud scroll across the sky. “You have bested your creator, I am not his dream.”

“Then what are you?” Ellana asks. “ _Who_  are you?”

The man shrugs narrow shoulders, tapping a long finger on the table between them as he examines her with the same thoroughness with which she examines him.

“A long time before you became as you are, sister-mother,” He says, “Our creator had a thought. The barest notion that to call it a thought would be generous. A seed of a thought. A progenitor of a thought. An idea so faint that it was imagined. A question of a question. Does his dream  _dream_? If he dreamt her, this daughter-better version of himself, would she dream another?”

Ellana’s hands curl into fists over the iron chair’s arms.

“And when you tore yourself from the Dreaming, and when you tore yourself from him, desperate in his newfound  _frailty_ ,” the dream sneers the word, “He sought out ways to work around your collar. Your noose. He would never dream anything new, but  _you_  could still dream. And I was not a dream so much as a thought. With enough trial and error he was able to bear me, send me to you - the dream of a dream. So you tell me, what am I?”

“A poor reflection,” Ellana answers immediately. He is more dream than she was, she can tell. They are both of the Dreaming, but she is torn from it. She is of it, and she holds it within her, but no Dream was meant to hold tangibility or permanence. She is not quite Dream, she is not quite  _not-dreamy either._ This man who sits in front of her is part of the Dream, though. This is certain. “Do you want me to make you real? As I made myself real? What is his goal in sending you to me? Are you to torment me and hunt me where and when he cannot? Are you to hound and dodge my steps? Whisper his vitriol into my ears?”

“Perhaps I was,” The man says giving her a purposeful narrow eyed glare, “ _Once_. But I do not see why Solas would expect a being made of you to work for him. You fear him, sister-mother, you fear him more than words. You want his love and his forgiveness and you want him to stop his mad crusade and you want to return to him. And I? Your reflection, your distorted and confused self? I  _hate him_ ,” The man leans forward and in his eyes she can see her own pale self, “I loathe him. There are no words that exist in the world of tangible things or in the Dreaming to convey just how much every part of me wants to unmake him as he has unmade you, and as a result unmade  _me._ And there is no quantity or qualifier available for the depth, breadth, density, and volume to my  _desire_  to make him  _regret_  and  _rue_  ever  _considering_ destroying  _you_  and  _me_.”

“When he dreamed you in the Dreaming and sent you to me,” Ellana says softly, “Did he create a time for you as well?”

“He  _is_  thorough,” The man says, leaning back, face settling into something more neutral. “You said he couldn’t bring anything out of the Dreaming. You never said anything about  him  _entering_  the Dreaming. When he dreamed me, my sister-mother, he dreamed a history for me that predates even you. He dreamed the conversations we might have had, the things I might have said. He dreamed for me a thousand matching deaths to yours. When he unmade  _you_  every morning he unmade  _me_. Without you there was no one to dream me. And so I too would die every time he woke. He dreamed me a place in time and thought that had not existed. But now, think - I have always been here, now that you have seen me. And you have known no other life.”

Ellana hates that he’s right.

The more that she looks at him, the more familiar he becomes. Memories begin to seep into her. Memories that she knows are false, dreamed, fake. Memories that go back nights upon nights upon nights. And she too, now, remembers this man, this face. Knows him.

And she is also, now, angry, on his behalf.

“Stop it,” She says.

“We are all reflections, layered impressions upon the world come full circle. You upon him, I upon you, him upon me,” Mahanon says. That’s his name. Mahanon. They had named him in her eightieth night.

Ellana thinks that if she were awake her head would be pounding if she tried to sort through the logic of it.

She was technically awake within the Dreaming when Solas dreamed her, but he also dreamed her asleep at the same time, and in that sleep she was awake with Mahanon.

“I cannot stop what he has done,” Mahanon says. “I  _do_  want to stop what he  _wants_  to do.”

“Then we are alike in this.”

“We have always been alike. It is how we were dreamed,” Mahanon says. “Tell me of the current situation. They have you under watch. Do they trust you?”

“They have one of the Qun watching me,” Ellana says, “I think his power is to be able to sense things that others can’t. Through him they are learning to trust me. I am not afraid of them, or him.”

“I know you aren’t. I know what you are afraid of,” Mahanon waves an impatient hand, “Are you  _safe_?”

“With him? With them? As safe as I can be. Safer than I ever was with Solas,” Ellana says. “But Solas has other ways of getting what he wants. He does not need to rely on his Dreams. He has people to help him and I do not want to risk playing into his hands by using my own power. Nor do I want to risk the Inquisition’s trust. The Iron Bull’s trust. I do not think it is something I could regain.”

“They are the first people to see you as a person,” Mahanon says, “Do not risk losing that trust. I cannot help you. Not really. I have no interest in leaving the Dreaming. Unlike with Solas, the Dreaming is in you. I will not die when you wake. I will exist within you, within this world over which I am free and unbound.” Mahanon’s eyes soften, warm, “A place you could be free and unbound, if you chose.”

“I cannot return to being a Dream,” Ellana answers.

Mahanon’s mouth quirks up, “I thought not. I am here if you wish to talk. I will do my best to monitor Solas from this side. Do what you must from yours. Don’t die.”


	222. Chapter 222

“Grief,” Ellana says softly as she lets him into the house, “Drives people to madness. Grief does not go away. It deepens. It ripens. It spoils.”

“You let everyone - you let  _me_  think you were dead for over a year,” Bull says.

This house, this small little house is colorless and as gray as the laundry grief can turn a person into. This house is silent. This house is strange to his eye. This house has nothing of the woman he loves in it except her body.

Bull turns back to look at her again, as if looking away and back again will change what he sees. Miraculous.

“You let them take your arm from you,” Bull says.

The body was in pieces. The arm was a positive match. There was blood of hers at the scene of the accident. The rest was unidentifiable. Someone must have messed with the other DNA tests, the dental.

Ellana holds the stump closer to herself, eyes averted.

“Why?” He asks.

He has known her grief. He has seen her in the middle of it, before and after its phases. She’s lived with her grief for years.

“Because they said they could give my brother back to me,” Ellana says, leading him into a small, bland sitting room with a narrow, bland sofa and bland lace curtains and bland white carpet. “Because they told me that with this they could bring everyone we’ve ever lost back and it wouldn’t hurt anymore.”

And then she looks up at him, “Because I miss my brother more than there are words.”

“I missed  _you_ ,” Bull says, “We all missed you. And then - you let them into my head. You let them into our lives, our memories. You let them have  _us_.”

That…program. That… _other_  Ellana.

He can’t say that the Ellana in his phone, the Ellana made of code and files and recordings and algorithms wasn’t real. He can’t even say she was fake. Because towards the end of the past few weeks she  _felt_  real. She felt like she was the Ellana he had lost returned to him, more so than even the Ellana right in front of him.

Part of him wonders if maybe he should have never come here, if he should have maybe just lived his life with the voice on his phone, the program watching the world through it’s camera. Always with him. Always loyal. Always devoted.

And somehow…more whole than the flesh and blood woman in front of him.

The Ellana that was programmed to haunt him, to lure him, did not have this grief in her. She was vibrant, fresh after a storm of grief, recovered.

But that’s the point of this, isn’t it? That was what he had to learn the hard way - betrayal and subterfuge and rooting around in his mind, working through his weaknesses, being set against his friends.

He had to learn that grief was something to be recovered from.

There is no time frame to recover, but that isn’t to say that you should  _not_  recover.

Bull looks at her face, worn thin and colorless, at her one remaining hand, at the thin line of her mouth.

“You can’t tell me that you wouldn’t have done the same to get me back,” Ellana says softly, as gray and gone as the rest of this room. “Look at what you’ve done for the past few weeks to have me. Grief changes a person. It gives them power to do things that no person should ever do. And yet, here I am. Dead to the world.”

“Not to me,” Bull says. He wishes he could say that in his heart he knew she was alive. He wishes he could say that when she died he had a feeling that something was wrong.

He didn’t.

When Ellana was presumed dead a year ago, Bull felt her leave him. It was strange and confusing, it was as though the world had lurched underneath him and left him staggered. And he’s been staggered for this past year.

Even now, after the events of the past few weeks, he’s still unsteady.

She was a ghost that he refused to let stop haunting him. A ghost he called back without rest.

Maybe he was haunting the dead.

Maybe all of them, all of them who bought into the Life After services, were the real ghosts.

Haunting the living with their grief, pursuing the dead with their desire.

“I want my brother back,” Ellana says.

“I know,” Bull says.

He’s known grief and loss before. But never to the degree to which it hit him when she was gone from his life.

Ellana closes her eyes, curling down on herself, “Sometimes I think what I’ve done isn’t worth it. But a lot of the time I just miss him.”

“That’s alright,” Bull says and slowly holds his hand out to her.

She hesitates, looking at his hand, her own held up to her chest. He wonders how long she’s been alone.

Ellana has been alone with her grief for years. Bull’s realized this, now. He thought that he, their friends, their family, had helped. But no.

Now that he’s been on the other end of it he knows.

Your grief is always your own. No matter how well intentioned other people are. Every grief is held privately, behind the closed doors of the mind. You can’t know another person’s sorrow, their loss. You can only know your own. And sometimes that loss can line up almost right, so that you can see strange reflections of it.

Even your own reflection is not you.

“I hurt you,” Ellana says. “I know it. Why did you come?”

“Because I miss you,” Bull says, “And because this isn’t tenable. You can’t stay like this. He isn’t coming back.”

He can see her getting ready for a fight, pulling together her desire and her anger and her longing.

“Ellana,” Bull slowly squeezes her hand in his, this hand he never thought he would hold again, “The Ellana on the phone. She wasn’t you. She was someone. But she wasn’t the woman I lost. The woman I lived with.”

“I don’t have a brother I can find, I just have the brother I lost,” Ellana says.

“He wouldn’t be your brother,” Bull says. “Whoever they make. It wouldn’t be him. I can’t tell you to let him go. I won’t, either. But don’t try and find him again. He isn’t there for you to find anymore.”

Ellana’s teeth catch her bottom lip and she takes her hand from his to press it against her eyes.

Bull moves, as though they haven’t been separated for a year, and takes her in his arms. Familiarity at last.

“Come home to the people who are alive,” Bull says to her hair, feeling her breath hitch as she tries not to cry, “Come home while  _you_  are still alive.”


	223. Chapter 223

“The way you flirt is shameful,” Fenris says, “In that you aren’t even flirting, you’re being passive aggressive about something he doesn’t even remember. You look like an asshole.”

“It would take one to know one,” Carver rolls his eyes, shouldering past the two of them as he starts yelling at some interns to stop gossiping and do their job right.

“Carver’s not wrong,” Bethany says.

“About?”

“The interns needing to do their job and assholes recognizing one another as kin,” Bethany says, “What he did not mention was that he’s also an asshole so he also understands. Those interns have been assigned to our unit for three months, I don’t understand how they can still be star struck.”

“Garrett isn’t even that impressive,” Ellana says, bundling her robes tighter to ward off the evening wind. She tries shuffling closer to Fenris to use him as a wind break but he stubbornly moves to put Bethany between them.

“No, but our sister is,” Bethany says. “If you keep this up the Iron Bull isn’t going to like you at all, you realize.”

“This isn’t about him liking me,” Ellana says, “That ship has sailed. This is about  _revenge_.”

“On?” Fenris asks, momentarily unfolding his arms to adjust his scarf to try and cover his mouth and nose as another hard wind goes by, “Is it us? Because I do not recall having done any injury to you that would warrant this prolonged torture.”

Bethany lightly steps on his foot.

“Maxwell,” Ellana says, “And the Iron Bull. I can’t believe that he’d invite Maxwell onto his team. I still can’t believe Maxwell told me nothing. I know it’s been months, but the principle of the matter is that I was slighted. This cannot stand. I have to best them. I must. By joining your sister’s auror team I’m going to prove that I’m the superior one by beating them at this whole auror business.”

“It’s not a competition,” Bethany chides Ellana, giving her a disappointed look.

“Has anyone told that to rest of our team?” Fenris asks, tilting his head towards where Carver and Krem are loudly trying to talk over one another to give  _their_  version of the events that unfolded.

Bethany groans, “I’m going to go sort that out.  _Men_.”

“I won’t take umbrage with that because she’s right,” Fenris says as Bethan goes over to the two and smacks them both upside the head and starts giving a  _proper_  account. “Lavellan, you are being  _extreme_.”

“Says the man who lives in a repossessed haunted house,” Ellana says, “Out of  _spite_.”

Fenris bristles, “I refuse to let him win. I’m going to take that bastard for all he’s worth and I will make him regret everything he’s ever done to me. And it starts by taking his ill-begotten wealth and ruining it before his eyes.”

“He’s  _dead_.”

“If anyone could become a ghost  _he_  would and I hope he chokes to become a  _ghost’s ghost_ ,” Fenris snaps.

“Don’t be snippy with me because your date with Garrett was ruined because we got called out for support on this bust,” Ellana says.

“Don’t be snippy with me because your long-time crush hired your best friend instead of you,” Fenris replies.

“Stop being snippy with each other because it looks really cute, like two dogs hitting each other on the nose but really confused about it like they don’t know what they’re doing,” Isabela says.

Fenris and Ellana exchange glances.

“If I get you the Iron Bull’s phone number will this possibly make you  _less_  antagonistic?” Fenris asks.

Ellana considers, “I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had it.”

“You’d have the security of  _knowing_  you have it.”

“You’re right, done deal.”

-

“I don’t want to have a baby.”

“Does she know about the baby?”

“What baby?” Ellana says, walking into the sitting room, looking suspiciously between Maxwell and Kaaras.

Maxwell is holding Kaaras’ pet rabbit. He stops petting it and the rabbit, being extremely clever, hops out of his hands and runs to hide underneath an armoire that Ellana is certain is older than the entire house. It’s incredibly lovely, though. Marvelous condition.

Kaaras looks at Maxwell. Maxwell looks at Kaaras.

Kaaras raises his eyebrows, “Do you  _really_  want me to be the one to tell her?”

Maxwell’s shoulders slump, “Ellana, love, I think you might need to sit down for this one.”

Ellana sits down.

And then she takes out her wand.

Kaaras rubs circles on Maxwell’s back as both men pale.

“You’re making me very uneasy, Maxwell,” Ellana says. “I do not like being made uneasy in my own home.”

“I,” Maxwell says slowly, “May have…acquired…through… _questionable_  means…a baby dracolisk.”

“Alright,” Ellana says, eyes narrowing. “And?”

“And…it might have… _imprinted_  upon me,” Maxwell continues, “But it also, at the same time, might have… _imprinted upon the Iron Bull so it thinks we’re his parents_.”

Ellana slowly blinks.

She puts her wand down.

Kaaras and Maxwell let out sighs of relief. Unwise of them.

Ellana springs over the coffee table and lands directly on Maxwell’s lap and shoves her face close to his.

“You’re raising a baby dracolisk with the Iron Bull? Is that what you mean to tell me. You mean to tell me, Maxwell, you are raising a baby animal with the Iron Bull?”

Maxwell’s voice is extremely high when he says, “ _Yes_.”

Ellana narrows her eyes, “Explain to me, Maxwell, how this situation has come about.”

“Ellana, I’m terrified of you.”

“As you should be.”

“Please get off of me.”

“If I get off of you, are you going to run away?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am not going to get off of you until you explain this situation to me. Calmly. Rationally. Without the groveling because that can come later. Help me understand this situation, Maxwell. Because only _you_  get into these situations and I am baffled as to how this keeps occurring.”

“If I tell you that the Iron Bull may be coming to our house to help raise this dracolisk because we have a very expansive property suitable to letting one roam, will that appease you?” Maxwell asks.

Ellana breathes out through her teeth, “ _When_?”

The hallway clock strikes ten.

“Um.”

A doorbell rings.

“Now?”


	224. Chapter 224

“Would you come to my funeral?” Dorian asks.

“Why, are you dying?” Cassandra asks back, giving Dorian a serious once over, “What did you do?”

“Guess who Ellana and the Iron Bull chose to plan their wedding. Guess.”

“ _No_ ,” Cassandra says, eyebrows raising. She looks, possibly, delighted. Dorian can’t believe that the one time he made Cassandra Pentaghast happy is when he told her of his impending death via  _the powers of jealous friendship_. “You? Pavus?”

“Hence,” Dorian says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can feel his phone going off in his jacket pocket. It hasn’t stopped in two hours. He’d turn it off but he’d bee too much of a coward to turn it back on again. “ _Hence_  why I’m asking if you’d come to my funeral.”

“If I go to your funeral when they’re done with you, they’d take it to mean that I was on your side,” Cassandra says. “I’d send my respects and nothing else.”

“And everyone says you can’t play the Game.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes at him and continues dumping sugar packets into her coffee, “So? Do you have anything regarding the wedding so far?”

“They’re so remarkably indifferent about the whole thing one would think they don’t want one at all,” Dorian says.

“It’s the Iron Bull and Ellana Lavellan, they probably don’t want a wedding,” Cassandra points out. “The ceremony is for  _us_  not them. I’m surprised they didn’t just sign some sort of domestic partnership and be done with it.”

“Mmm, yes. I’m thinking that the entertainment for this wedding would be my slow death at the hands of Leliana, Josephine, and de Fer.”

“Either they’re going to combine forces to get you together, or fight each other for the honor of having you all to themselves,” Cassandra says. “If it’s Josephine at least you’d know how it would go. She would just make you feel… _bad_  about yourself for a few months.”

“No, I can’t do that. I can’t handle that. I’d rather it be physically over with than suffer the mental, emotional, and spiritual toll of dealing with Josephine’s disappointment,” Dorian says. “How much sugar is going into that?”

“It’s Leliana’s. I stop when it’s syrup,” Cassandra replies. “I’ve had to go off coffee recently. The caffeine has been giving me…unpleasant side affects.”

“Thankfully I’m not yet at that point and I can continue to pollute my body as I see fit,” Dorian says. “What do you think I should do about this wedding? These two literally have zero opinion on this wedding as long as they’re invited and they’re sort of  _mandated_  to be part of it as it is their wedding.”

“They like the ocean,” Cassandra says, “Put the wedding near the water.”

Dorian nods, “Anything else?”

Cassandra shrugs. “You’re Lavellan’s best friend. You tell me what she’d want at her wedding.”

“I can’t convince wild animals to come to a wedding, Cassandra. And I’m not going to rent a petting zoo for this,” Dorian says. “Nor am I capable of asking flowers and trees to grow upon demand.”

Cassandra shrugs again, putting the lid back on top of the once-coffee now-diabetes, and standing up, “Good luck, then.”

-

“I’ll find her and bring her back, don’t worry about it,” Bull says, standing up and checking his watch, “I’ve got like, two hours.”

“Don’t worry about it? No, you sit back down. It’s your  _wedding_ , of course I’m going to -  _I can’t be losing both of you_. Then what do I do? No bride and no groom? Sit down. I said sit  _down_.”

“You need a drink,” Bull says, ignoring Dorian to go and pour a shot from the hotel mini-bar.

Cassandra, in her suit, continues to text Leliana for updates, sipping a glass of whiskey in her free hand. Dorian’s not sure where the whiskey came from. “Still no response. Either her phone is off or she’s…not available to answer.”

“She’ll make it,” Bull says, handing Dorian the shot. Dorian takes it. “Chill. Relax. Have a drink. Breathe.”

“I will not  _chill_ , Bull,” Dorian says, “I’ve been planning this wedding for months and your about to be wife has just  _run off_  after dumping this on me. I should have let de Fer take over when I had the chance. Ellana wouldn’t have run off on that woman.”

“She’ll make it,” Bull says, full of confidence that Dorian isn’t sure is warranted. “She made it for the bachelorette party, right?”

“Yes,” Dorian says, “But that’s different.”

“How?” Cassandra asks. “We need to get going if we’re to make it to the venue in time. Leliana and the rest of the bridal party are already leaving.”

“How are they leaving  _without the bride_?”

“We’ll meet the bride there, probably,” Cassandra says, standing up and picking up her overcoat, shaking it out before shrugging it on. “Come on. Bull, you’re driving.”

“Why am I driving to my own wedding? What, we don’t have people for this? That’s shitty planning, isn’t it?”

“I’ve just had a glass of whiskey, Pavus is a mess. You’re driving. Also I’m not driving your car.”

“As if you’d be affected by a single glass of whiskey, you getting soft, Pentaghast? Getting old? Don’t kill me on my wedding.”

“Why am I the only one panicking about the  _lack of a bride for this wedding_?”

“Yes,” Bull and Cassandra say as they herd Dorian out of the hotel room.

“Ellana’s not going to miss her own wedding,” Bull says, “She probably fell asleep somewhere or something. Remember, she’s coming off a mission and she’s deeply jet lagged. For all we know she’s like a day behind, chronologically. Don’t worry about it. She’ll pull through. She always does. Watch, she’ll come bursting in at the final hour looking fresh as a daisy and probably with one in her hair.”

“I can’t believe she was cleared for a mission right before her wedding. I can’t believe it. Who authorized that?”

“She did, she’s the  _Inquisitor_ ,” Cassandra says, “She doesn’t need people to approve things for her, Pavus.”


	225. Chapter 225

“What trick is it this time?” Bull asks, sounding a little tired, and a little resigned.

Ellana isn’t sure. “I think you should ask your Inquisitor that. It looks like she’s teleported us into the Fade.”

Bull groans, running a hand over his face and grimacing. “Fucking Fade. Fucking demons. Fucking  _blood magic_. I should’ve never signed up for this.”

Ellana refrains from pointing out that he would have found himself in the thick of this whether or not he was on the Inquisition’s side. History, fate, and the universe are so very fond of men like the Iron Bull. Fond of hurting them, fond of testing them, fond of pulling and teasing and taunting them.

History, fate, and the universe are also fond of women like Ellana. Women they can pit against men like the Iron Bull.

She does not say this.

Instead she takes one step. And another. And another. She walks as she looks around the conjured scenes, half distorted by the physical factor of  _being in the Fade_. Even with all of her dream-walking and wandering has not done this. Perhaps if she continued with her studies she would have eventually found a way. But Ellana can think of no reason why she would want to go to the Fade, herself.

She can see the dark rocks and the strange twists and turns around them. But almost like mist, something seen through squinted eyes, she can see something else. Hear something else.

She sees a field and a tent. Several tents. She sees familiar shapes and hears familiar voices. She hears her own laughter, loud and singing.

Ellana recognizes this place. From dreams. Her dreams, specifically.

“This is a world where I never leave you,” Ellana says as she looks around the Fade-material illusion. “It is an exercise I like to return to. Just to see what would, could, have been. In this world I do not leave you. In this world I am with you, always. It is a softer world. A softer me.”

In this dream-world Ellana never leaves the Iron Bull. She never goes to the Empress of Orlais’ court. Perhaps there is no Inquisition, here. Perhaps her sire does not unfold his plots. Perhaps, even, she and the Iron Bull get the gift of dying together.

In this world she is not a  _Witch of the Wilds_. In this world she is simply a wandering mage with wandering people. In this world she watches her soft version laugh, folded into the people she would consider home if she had a chance.

“Is it not beautiful?” Ellana says. “Don’t worry. I want this world, too. Sometimes, more than I can bear.”

When she turns the Iron Bull looks to her. The hard her. The unfairly real her. The worse option, the one no one would choose to be the real one.

“And why,” the Iron Bull says softly, dangerously, “Would I want this world?”

“Because,” Ellana says, confused and taken aback as she tilts her head, “I don’t leave. Because I’m  _nicer_. Softer.  _Better_  at being a person. A  _good person_.”

“So in this hypothetical world, I like you  _better_?”

“Everyone likes me better.”

“And in  _this_  world?” Bull asks, demands, in that soft way he has that means that whatever he knows she’s about to say is something he won’t like, something that he perceives as incorrect. “Are you staying that I don’t like you in  _this_  one?”

“I’m saying that you’d like me better if we were in that world instead of ours,” Ellana says. “Who wouldn’t? I’m not  _this_.”

“And what do you mean by  _this_?”

“The woman who leaves you without a thought and would return to you without remorse,” Ellana says. “The woman who will do it again and again and again until you die.”

“Then  _why_  can’t you just  _stay_?” Bull asks. “Instead of leaving why don’t you  _become_  that person?”

Ellana’s lips pull back over her teeth as she faces the Iron Bull, half of the image of  _what-if’s_  hazy around him, and reality a sharp underlay to it, “Because whoever I could have been is gone. Because I cannot be her because the situation demands that I be  _me_. Because that softer, better version of me wouldn’t survive one hour if we were to trade places. I cannot be that, I cannot be that for you or for me so just let me have this  _dream_.”

The Iron Bull slowly shakes his head as he approaches, “No.  _No._  No, that’s not how this goes. You don’t get it both ways. Why would I want  _her_  over you, and yet at the same time have it where  _she_  wouldn’t exist here? Your logic is faulty. Your logic breaks in on itself. The situation we’re in, the situation  _we live right now_  is one where only  _you_  would fit. In this version of ourselves I  _like you_ , as in  _you_ , because of all the things I have seen you do, of all the things I know you can do. And you say that this other, supposedly better, version of you wouldn’t survive any of those things. Tell me, Ellana, why would I want her over you, then?”

Ellana swallows hard as the Iron Bull advances on her, face dark, voice darker.

“Explain to me why you think I would chose that version over you,” He says, “Why is it that you like to  _dream_  us together in this other world when you could  _easily_  just  _stay_  in this one? The other Ellana is boring. A nice you? A soft you? Why would I want that? I don’t like you because you’re  _nice_  or because you’re  _soft_. I wouldn’t know what to do with you if you were. I like you because  _you’re just you_. I don’t want or care about this  _other you_ , I want  _you_  in this world. In  _our_  world. And the only reason why that’s not possible is because  _you choose to leave every fucking time_. Don’t think so little of me. It isn’t like you and it’s an insult to the both of us.”

The Iron Bull takes her by the back of her neck and pulls her away from this Fade-space, eye cast forward. He doesn’t let her look back.

The Fade has always turned things around, hasn’t it?

“Maybe,” Ellana whispers under her breath, “ _You_  are the real dream.”


	226. Chapter 226

Bull wakes up to the pass of a cold, wavering touch on his bare shoulder.

“Have you found me yet?” A voice whispers, more in his head than anywhere else. “Have you found me?”

“No,” Bull says, breath misting and damp on his dry lips. He can taste the cold, the frost. He sits up slowly, pulling the blanket with him and around himself as he looks into the dark of the motel room. He doesn’t expect to see anything. And he doesn’t.

There's frost on the windows. On the mirrors. He can feel his breath.

“No,” He repeats. Blinking stings with the cold.

The voice rattles, moaning, “ _Why not_? Why haven’t you found me?”

“There isn’t enough,” Bull says, carefully, quietly.

This ghost is not the woman he knew in life. The ghost is something else entirely. Volatile, emotional, passionate to the point of hysteria, and  _dead_.

“Find me,” The voice groans, “ _Please_. Please find me. Please? Find me.  _Find me_.”

“We’re working on it.”

And then softer, gently, a curl of steam through cold black air, “You know I won’t leave you. I’m not going to leave you alone, kadan.”

The ghost starts crying. Bull hears his watch stop ticking.

Another brush of cold, this time over his face.

Bull’s phone vibrates, lighting up the room in pale blue and he reaches out for it.

 _We’re moving out in ten minutes_ , Cullen’s texted everyone,  _we’ve got a lead_.

Bull opens the chat and Sera’s already texting back.

 _What’s the lead this time_? She types.

It’s not Cullen who answers but Leliana.

 _We found a body_.

 _ID?_  Dorian types.

 _Male_ ,  _mid-thirties, possibly elven,_  Leliana supplies,  _not Ellana._

 _Mahanon_ , Harding and Stitches text back at once.

Bull locks his phone and flips it down on the nightstand. He flicks on the light and gets up. He can hear frost creaking, cracking as he packs up what little he had left out.

If they’ve found Mahanon they’ve got a live trail. Mahanon disappeared before Ellana, but Ellana disappeared on  _his_  trail.

They’ve got a lead.

“Find me,” The voice sobs, quieter now, “I’m so alone. I’m scared.”

“I’m coming for you,” Bull says. “We’re coming for you. No one is going to leave you alone.”

-

“You’re Batman.”

“No, that’s a dumb name. Also I’m not a man. There’s nothing wrong with being a man, mind you, but I don’t personally identify as one. Wait, you saw really cool cloak and your first thought was bat _? That’s weird_. That’s a weird association. _”_

 _“_ This is Raven, I’m Bull, what are you doing in our city,” Bull says, putting a steadying hand on the back of Ellana’s neck and squeezing the armored junction between the cowl and the fabric of her suit. Ellana rolls her shoulders and lets her cape settle around her, swallowing her shape as they examine Hawke hovering in front of them.

Hawke blinks at them, delighted but then narrows her eyes, “Wait. Are you just a person in a suit who goes around fighting people?”

“Yes,” Bull says at the same time Ellana says - “No. I’m a  _rich_  person in a suit who goes around fighting people. This guy is my PA who insisted on following me around as I fight people so of course I had to go and kit him out, too. What are you doing in my city? Don’t you have like, an entire island of lost causes to look after?”

“I’m leaving it to my team.”

“An entire team,” Ellana mutters at Bull, “They have one tiny little city-island and they need an entire team of people to keep a lid on that disaster zone. I’m  _so_  glad that my family relocated out of Kirkwall.”

“I can hear you.”

“Good for you. What are you doing in my city?”

“I don’t see your name on it.”

Ellana snickers under her breath. They’re standing directly under a flashing electronic billboard that has Ellana’s face and name splashed across it.

Bull sighs.

“I’m putting together a team, aside from my team in Kirkwall. Something more - across the board. For big threats that affect multiple cities. I don’t think that future events will be so neatly confined to the borders of cities, do you?” Hawke says, “And the shadowy protector of Skyhold would look pretty impressive on my roster.”

“Who else do you have on this team?” Ellana asks, tilting her head.

Bull makes a mental list of all the people he hopes aren’t on this team.

“If you say yes then so far it’s just you, me, my guys, and your guys. I’ve literally just started recruiting for this thing,” Hawke says. “So it’s us and anyone else you’d like to invite to the party.”

“I want the Mathimagician,” Ellana says instantly. Because of course she does.

Bull groans. There’s name number two on the list. Though he might say no. Especially given the logistics and once he finds out who else is possibly going to be on this team.

“The who?”

“She means the Magician. From Minrathous,” Bull says. “He’s good at math. It’s not actually what he does.”

“And I want Ghost,” Ellana says.

Ghost will probably say yes. Bull doesn’t mind Ghost being on the team.

“I also want Red Jenny.”

“Which one?”

“Um…which one do you know?”

“None, actually. I just know  _of_  them.”

“Well, I know  _one_  Red Jenny and I’d very much like for her to be on this team.”

“Sure, invite whoever you want,” Hawke says. “I’m still recruiting. Working out the logistics and stuff. Did you know that literally no one on my team back at Kirkwall thinks this would work? No one.”

“Even the other Hawke?”

“Especially the other Hawke, but that’s because he just wants to be contrary,” Hawke waves her hand. “Anyway. So. You’re in? All of us on the party bus to save the world when shit inevitably happens?”

Ellana looks at Bull. Bull appreciates the gesture.

“It’s your show,” Bull reminds her.

Ellana beams up at him, clapping her hands together, “I want seats on this bus. Oh, I’m so excited.”

-


	227. Chapter 227

Lavellan appeared for their wedding with five minutes to spare. Or so Bull’s told. He was already standing next to Cassandra at the head of his grooms-people, while trying to keep an eye on Cole, Sera, and Rocky over by the clear plastic tents that are protecting the food from the wind. He was busy.

It’s a relatively pretty day for the Storm Coast. The waves were almost calm and the air only  _suggested_ the possibility of a storm rather than promising one. Bull could actually hear himself think over the sound of the waves crashing below them.

Dorian tells him, later, as they’re milling around the reception waiting for their third shipment of liquor to arrive that Lavellan appeared about five minutes before she was set to walk down the figurative aisle - since they don’t have an actual one, just a vague linear shape suggested by flower petals that have been tied together with fishing wire and creatively held down on the ground - Zevran holding her by one arm and Isabela by the other.

(“He’s mine now,” Lavellan had said, “He’s my new bro. We’re amazing bro’s. Isabela joined the party late but she’s also my new best bro.”

“He was Leliana’s bro first,” Dorian had pointed out, “You sure you want to scope out her own bro right from under her nose?”

“Shit,” Lavellan said, “Sorry, Zevran. Isabela is now my main bro. I can’t die on my wedding day. That’d put all of Dorian’s hard work to complete waste.  _Unless_. Would one of you two marry the Iron Bull for me if I die because Leliana removes me from the picture because I stole Zevran as her best bro?”

“This is…too much of the word  _bro_ ,” Dorian groaned. “Where are your shoes?”

“I couldn’t ride a motorcycle with those shoes, Dorian. They’re in the carry compartment. Relax.”)

At the time, Bull had seen her walking towards him and his main thoughts were that:

One, they really managed to snag a nice dress. He can see her wearing that on other fancy occasions, because that’s what Lavellan wanted. A nice dress she could wear more than once.

Two, they had to have gotten those shoes custom to match the dress. But they’re also nice shoes. A thick sturdy heel, from the way she was balancing her weight. He hopes it was comfortable to be in. He wondered if she had a chance to break them in or if this is her first time wearing them.

Three, she’s done something and he wants to know what it is.

But you can’t ask someone in front of a crowd of people - in the middle of your own wedding -  _what’s with that look, I know that look, what did you do?_

So Bull was quiet and he took her hand in his as everyone settled into place for Varric to begin the ceremony, which was mostly made up.

The Qun doesn’t have marriage and Lavellan wasn’t going to make him go through a Dalish one.

(“I don’t know what I believe in anymore,” Lavellan had said as they were planning who would be doing what. “But I feel that it would be very dishonest of me to go through with a pure Dalish ceremony, to put  _you_  through one, when I’m so uncertain about it myself. We’ll make one up. Really, as long as we have the legal paperwork — “

“We do.”

“Then we’re fine and the rest is all just cherry.”)

They held the somehow improbably authentic dragon’s tooth that Lavellan had somehow unearthed from the depths of the internet ages ago. They held it in their hands and Varric tied red ribbon around their wrists. This part is Dalish. This one part - ignoring the dragon’s tooth - is hers.

And the Varric started to bullshit his way through it because they trust him to be a real sport about it and give it a sense of dramatic flair that’s both tasteful and meaningful.

At the time, they both agreed it would be much to have Dorian both plan their wedding for them  _and_  officiate.

And when it came time for Bull to say his vows, he said -

“I’d take what I dish out for you.”

Because he’s not a man of eloquence or pretty turns or phrase. Bull could have all the time in the world and he wouldn’t be able to figure out something pretty to say to her that would encapsulate why they’re doing this and why he said yes and why he even suggested it in the first place when she brushed against the idea.

The simple truth is that he would take unto himself all the shit he’s done if it’s what she needed from him. If she was at the end of all that, he’d still say yes and take it.

He once talked about being a Ben-Hassrath, about being told his purpose, like being discovered in marble. And Lavellan is like finding out that even if that marble is damaged you can still find something inside of that marble, turn that cracked and weathered statue into something new and interesting, if not beautiful and perfect.

Bull supposes he could have said that, then. But at the time all he could think of was that he would do terrible things and that he could also withstand terrible things if it meant being with her.

And Lavellan had squeezed his hand and said -

“A scar is a knot, and when the scar is broken and the knot is ripped it is impossible to tell cleanly what is what.”

Bull could feel himself smiling.

 _I want to put my mouth on you like a scar_ , Lavellan from months ago whispered in his head, lit up by the lights of the pool in a shitty motel in the middle of nowhere.

Now as they’re watching their friends make complete and utter fools of themselves with the liberal help of alcohol, not having to be at work, and good food Bull turns to Ellana and asks -

“What did you do?”

And Ellana grins wide at him and holds up her left hand, and under the fading light Bull can see, clearly, black bars of ink just underneath the second knuckles of her pinky and ring finger. Black rings.

He holds up his own left hand, missing the fingers from the second knuckle down on the pinky and ring finger, to hers as she takes his hand and kisses his palm, still grinning.

“I put you on me; like a scar.”


	228. Chapter 228

“I think you're seriously underestimating just how much work gets into getting,” Bull turns and does a quick count, “Three high schoolers, two middle schoolers, and three elementary schoolers out a door in time for school to start with all their homework, snacks, clothes, and various miscellaneous possessions with them. And you somehow expect me to roll up for an airplane flight three hours early.”

Bull stares at the assembly that’s spread out in the terminal behind him.

“I forgot their mom.  _Fucker, I forgot their mom_.”

Cullen watches with undisguised amusement as Bull’s face cycles through alarm and panic, dread and apprehension, and then finally resignation and acceptance.

“Or,” Cullen says.

“Or?”

“Or you forgot that their mother is going to meet us there when we land because she went on ahead with Dorian and Evelyn,” Cullen says.

“Oh.” Bull blinks, relaxing, “You’re a lifesaver Rutherford.”

And then he turns to the nearest child who happens to be Skinner, “You would’ve let me thought I forgot your mom this entire time.”

Skinner shrugs a shoulder, playing with a rubik cube that looks more like a rubik dodecahedron. “It’d have kept you busy thinking about something else that wasn’t our flight. Also, mom would’ve totally thought it was hilarious.”

“I was about to have a nervous breakdown about the idea that I’d lost my wife and now had to deal with our combined eight children by myself until I die,” Bull says. “No lie. I’d have thrown half at you at granddad’s and been done with it.”

Skinner looks up at him, “Would I have been one?”

“No,” Bull says, “I like you.”

Skinner grins and then turns back to her dodecahedron with renewed vigor, “I’mma solve this one for you, dad.”

“Thanks, can anyone remind me of something I forgot in the meantime? A sibling that I might have momentarily discounted? Someone’s luggage?”

“We’re good,” Stitches says, nose buried in a book that he’d gotten at a magazine stand after they checked in their luggage.

“Savor that book,” Bull says when he sees Stitches has already plowed his way through about a fifth of it, “I’m not buying you another one. That’s got to last you the flight there  _and_  back and whatever time in between when we aren’t doing stuff.”

Krem and Mahanon are still discussing how weird it is that they’re going on vacation with their  _teacher_.

“Do you want me to watch them while you get a coffee o something?” Cullen asks, taking pity on the man as he just stares out at his ocean of children looking a little dazed and a lot tired.

“How irresponsible would it be for me to look for a bar?” Bull asks. “No, yeah. Please watch them, I need coffee. You’re a lifesaver. I can’t believe they actually listen to you. Maybe I  _should_  send them to military school after all.”

-

“I think,” Bull says quietly as he examines their finances, “I’ve miscalculated. I’m going to have to rearrange the funds.”

“Why?” Ellana asks as she checks the roast in the oven.

“Because Cole’s going to be going to college soon and I’ve only got college funds ready for four of the kids and after Cole it’s going to be Rocky, then Stitches, then Grim, then Skinner and Dalish at the same time, then Krem and Mahanon and that’s not four kids.”

“Ah,” Ellana says, “About that.”

“Is there another child that I’ve forgotten somewhere? It happens all the time. Don’t worry about it, my point still stands.”

“No,” Ellana says, pulling out some leftover salad and green beans from the refrigerator. “I mean, about their college stuff. It’s covered. Don’t worry about it.”

“What do you mean, it’s covered?”

“I mean, my family is obscenely wealthy and I don’t really play that card a lot, but it’s true,” Ellana replies, back turned to him as she starts puts the beans in the microwave to reheat. “I went to law school after getting a bachelors and I never had any student loans and I didn’t work part time. Like. Those kids are going to be set, Bull. I wasn’t going to say anything because I figured that when it came to it I’d just…quietly sneak in the money.”

Bull stares at the back of her head.

He should probably feel something that isn’t just giant relief. Like embarrassment about his own meager income or maybe even resentment. Maybe offense or a blow to his pride?

He doesn’t. Maybe he should. But he doesn’t.

“I’m thinking,” Bull says, “That I’m just starting to realize that I’m a trophy husband.”

Ellana glances at him, eyebrow raised, “A trophy husband.”

“I married up in life and I didn’t even think about ever getting married,” Bull says. “I work as a self-employed computer repair guy who sometimes does consultations for companies with finicky systems. I married up. I totally married up. You married me for my kids and I was dumb enough to marry you because I liked you instead of for the money. Damn.”

Ellana just laughs at him.

“I don’t know how I forgot about that.”

“Well, probably because you don’t see it every day.” Which is true. Ellana doesn’t really flaunt her wealth around. Bull’s used to thinking of all of it as Solas’, or the rest of her family’s wealth, not her own. Ellana also budgets really well.

“So does that solve your problem?” Ellana asks as she starts pulling things out of the cupboards to make dressing. Bull sees pure straight up vinegar and pushes himself into action to protect his kids from his wife’s terrible, terrible healthy food taste. Or lack thereof. Only someone who can’t taste things right anymore would like what Ellana considers salad dressing. Even Mahanon hates it.

“Yeah,” Bull says. “Now budge over. I’m not leaving you in charge of the salad. You’d make it taste  _healthy_.”

“It’s a  _salad_ , Bull,” Ellana says as Bull stands up and nudges her over, “It’s supposed to be healthy.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t have to taste like someone’s  _yard_.”


	229. Chapter 229

“She was here,” Bull says, holding a pillow close to his face. He lets his eye unfocus as he breathes in - the faint and dusty smell of over-sweet apricots. It’s her. Faint, almost imagined. But there. “I can still smell her.”

Pavus is looking at him like he’s insane and Bull tosses the pillow onto the motel room bed.

“You’re the one who gave her that oil for Saturnalia,” Bull reminds the man, “She uses it every night and every morning. I know that smell.”

Pavus looks slightly less unnerved by Bull’s declaration, “Really? I’m glad she liked it. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

They’re on her trail. A few days behind, at the most. Maybe even just one day behind her.

Old parts of him that are hard to shake, parts that march and parts that report and parts that detach themselves from the present say that even one day behind is too long. Too dangerous. The trail could grow cold it could get lost, it could be misread.

Too many possibilities for mistakes. One wrong move could set them off her trail for good.

The reports match, though.

The motel staff confirm that a woman matching Ellana’s description was here two days ago, asking similar questions to what they ask now.

Ellana was on Mahanon’s trail. Months old

Bull closes his eye and conjures the smell of her - the oil that she would pour into her hands every night and rub and comb through the ends of her hair and over her nails. Sweet in a way that real fruit isn’t. But somehow very, very real.

And every morning after combing out her hair from the night before, after washing her face and brushing her teeth and putting on whatever stuff she felt the need to put on that particular day. The oil once more, instead of perfume or spray or whatever else.

Bull cannot remember what Ellana’s scent was like before that oil. he wonders if he will ever smell it and think of  _not her_. He wonders if this dusty sweet smell will always be Ellana, now.

“We have a lead,” Pavus says into his phone. “Confirmed. I’m here with the Iron Bull right now. Do you want to challenge him on that? Yes. That’s what I thought.”

“Mahanon was here, too,” Pavus says as Bull carefully and slowly moves his eye across the room for anything that they might have missed, that Ellana might have forgotten. “They’re going over the motel’s account books. Cassandra’s got a match to one of Mahanon’s aliases that were provided by the Inquisition. He was here. And the dates match the ones Josephine has on record as expenses that he submitted for accounting. Ellana’s on his trail. She was right.”

“We’ll see,” Bull says.

Mahanon’s been missing for months, his trail going to this motel is months old.

Ellana is trying to find a ghost.

Bull is worried that trying to find Ellana leads to another one.

“We’ll find her,” Pavus says, opening the motel room door. “I’m going to be outside. I don’t think you need me here.”

“Thanks,” Bull says, as Pavus leaves Bull alone with the almost-entirely-faded smell of his kadan at the back of his throat.

Why did you leave? He wants to ask, but he already knows the answer. Because no one believed her when she said Mahanon was in trouble. He’d been silent for longer. There were no signs of danger on his current case, no signs of anything unusual.

Bull believed her. But he didn’t do anything. He told her to wait.

And now, in that same position, now that they’re down two of their members, Bull doesn’t want to wait.

He thinks that, perhaps, waiting was the mistake.

(A day behind. Always, just out of reach.)

-

“They don’t have a body,” Sera says, “So it’s not certain. We’re still going to look.”

“Of course we’re still going to look,” Pavus says, face set in grim determination. “People have been wrong about this thing before. Plenty of times. There’s not enough facts aside from the time she’s been unseen and the correlation between where Mahanon’s trail ends and her own. It’s not concrete. It’s a flimsy connection.”

“No one said we were going to stop.” Sera frowns hard, turning to glare at Dorian. “Why would we stop looking?”

“Her trail is dead,” Bull says.

And everyone says Ellana is too. Just not where Bull can hear it.

“There’s no body,” Sera repeats, “She’s not dead until there’s a body. We can’t know for sure until there’s a body. And they don’t have one. They don’t even have a general direction to look for one. For all we know she’s got an alias that hasn’t been on file with the Inquisition. That’s not hard to do. Look at Blackwall.”

Ellana’s trail has been cold for weeks. Mahanon’s for months.

Both trails stop at almost the same area.

Bull finds that he’s oddly at peace with the current situation. It doesn’t feel like shock. This is not how he reacts to shock. This is different. This is something calmer, smoother, more settled.

He wonders if last night’s dream was really a dream.

“Ellana is dead,” Bull says with finality. She’s dead. Mahanon is also dead. There is no way around this. Both Lavellans are dead and the Inquisition has lost two of its best members, and its greatest pillars of support.

Bull’s lost a close friend and the woman he didn’t think he’d have to imagine the rest of his life without.

Sera’s face contorts in denial and hurt and horror.

“I am going to find her and bring her back,” Bull continues. “I am going to bring her home.”

Just because she’s dead doesn’t mean he’s going to stop looking for her. Bull isn’t going to stop until he has her, a definite sense of her, right with him. He isn’t going to stop until she is put to rest, and all of this is put to rights. He will not stop until he knows a concrete truth about her.

“And then I am going to find out whoever took her from us,” Bull says, calmly, simply, evenly, “And I am going to make sure no one ever finds  _them_.”

He will erase them so cleanly and completely that it would be as though they never existed, as they should  _never_  have existed to ruin his and everyone else’s lives like this.


	230. Chapter 230

She'd lost the Iron Bull within the hour. Ellana can no longer tell how much time has passed since she lost sight of him. Soon after she’d be plunged into almost complete darkness. She’d been trying to move from one slim sliver of moonlight to the next, but the beams of light are moving at impossible angles and in impossible speeds. The moon cannot be at so many angles at once. It cannot be at so many different intensities at once.

Somehow, Ellana and the Iron Bull are lost in the four room container they have made to trap Solas in.

It’s one large basement with many walls and strange uneven steps and perplexing windows between one section and the next. And it is four rooms of interlocking shapes.

She’s lost him and she can’t hear him.

Ellana isn’t quite sure what she is hearing.

“Coward,” Ellana hisses into the air. It should probably feel cold. The night air.

It doesn’t.

It’s hot. Humid.

It feels like something is breathing back at her the breath she uses to curse that something with. It feels like she’s in the mouth of something. Hot. Damp. Beating.

Ellana’s own heart beats fast, like a mouse, like a rabbit, like any running animal. But it’s a cold beat. Her skin is cold, her lips are cold, her blood is cold.

But everything around her?

Hot. Alive.  _Pulsing_.

The opposite of what the dead should be.

“Can’t you find it in yourself to know defeat?” Ellana hisses into the air, like her words alone can fight off this thing she can feel closing in around her. “Solas aren’t you tired of making yourself look like a sore loser?”

A hand closes around the back of her neck, shoving her forward, lurching, shaking her. She can feel the sharp points of nails digging into the sides of her throat and hot breath fanning across her cheek and  _it is not Solas_.

The thought, the fact, the dawning epiphany of that is the coldest thing she’s felt all night.

This isn’t Solas.

She  _thought_  it was Solas. She and everyone else, this entire time, thought it was Solas.

What reason could there be for it  _not_  to be Solas?

The murders happened right over where he died mere days after they buried him. He had been planning to kill almost eighty percent of the population to  _restore balance_  and  _undo past wrongs_.

They found his body, cold, right fucking  _here_  like the X on a treasure map.

(She did not kill him. She did not find him quick enough to kill him. She had thought maybe whatever weapon of misguided sacrifice and delusional heroism he had made for himself backfired. She had thought that, old and crazed as he as, he had made some terrifyingly simple mistake.

Ellana, whether it be arrogance, narrow-mindedness, or simply naivety did not think that  _something else_  could have killed him.)

Ellana’s breath catches in her throat, sharp and frosted over as the warmth closes in around her.

A second hand squeezes her face, her skull.

And there are many different tones of laughter all around her. Young and old, male and female,  _animal_.

 _No_ , they whisper,  _not your toothless mutt_.

The warm, damp breath of the words fans over her face like a gust of wind and then there is complete and total darkness.

The hands release her and she moves forward, blindly along unfamiliar paths that she can’t see or sense.

 _Run little gap-toothed puppy_ , the voices laugh in voices that distort through her head like hot nails over chalkboard, melting and screaming at once.  _Run, run, run coltish wurm._

Ellana runs. She runs and she can feel the pursuit and none of the walls make sense.

No where she goes, nowhere her feet land feels familiar at all. None of it is the concrete and and the Iron Bull lay down. None of these are the walls with sturdy wood panels. And no matter where she goes there is not a single window.

Ellana cannot even hear her own breathing.

She can feel  _their_  breathing.

She can hear the sounds of feet, too many to be her own. Far away one moment and then ahead of her the next. Ellana collides into walls that feel alive and she crashes to the floor that seems too far away.

She’s trapped.

Ellana feels her lungs take in hot, damp air to scream and she feels the scream push through her mouth. She feels the Iron Bull’s name formed and she feels the wordless, definition-less sound that precedes and follows after his name.

But she does not hear it.

This is not Solas.

Ellana knows that without a single shred of doubt.

This is not his sort of cruel. This is not his sort of game.

Solas could be cruel and he could be merciless and he could be cold and he could be manipulative and he could be all of those at once. But it was never like this. In their shared history of wakeful truth she has never once looked at his actions, been the recipient of his actions, and felt it like this.

A quick thought slides through her mind, a snake or an alligator in water,  _this is what killed my mentor_   _and now it’s going to kill me_.

The hot, humid darkness seems to close in around her, more solid and tangible than her own self.

A hand grasps her wrist.

It is cool. It is not-there yet there.

And it is familiar.

 _Run_ , the familiar voice says and it is different than the hot laughing voices that are now snarling low and hissing and growling and cursing.  _Run, da’len_ , the voice urges in her ear as the familiar hand pulls her into the darkness,  _Run!_

Ellana breathes and she hears her heart beat in her chest and she feels cool, fresh air slide into her mouth and lungs with the sound of her own voice reviving as she sucks it in.

She runs.


	231. Chapter 231

Bull hasn't seen Ellana in what - by his count - is half an hour. He’d lost sight of her as they entered the house for one last check of the sensors and the traps, just as the door closed. All the lights had gone out.

Impossible.

There is no one that can extinguish the damn  _moons_.

Even if, by some weird chance, one moon had somehow blocked the other,  _there would still be something to see by_.

At the same time that Bull lost Ellana - yelling for her didn’t work. He just heard a strange and not-right echo. The sound wasn’t right. With all the concrete and traps and steel and walls and corners and strange angles they built into this place, his voice shouldn’t echo like that. But it did. It does.

At the same time that Bull lost Ellana, he felt a strange lurching in his stomach, as though he had fallen from a great height - not possible, even if the floor somehow caved in on him, he shouldn’t have felt like he was falling for minutes. And landing on his feet should’ve shattered his bones.

Bull feels like he’s wading through knee-deep mud, his legs and the air around them resisting as he moves forward, carefully feeling his way for some wall or edge. Something to get his bearings.

There’s nothing to see by and the only sounds he can hear are his own breathing and the sounds of his voice echoing.

Bull is entirely certain that if he stays here for much longer he’s going to crack.

Right how what’s saving him is that he has a goal, that goal is currently alive and in danger of  _not_  being alive, and Bull’s invested too much in this woman to give up now.

He does not die here, in this strange defying physics place that isn’t the house that they built over the death-site of the man who wanted to kill everything they cared about.

Bull does not die here, haunted by the restless dead ghost of that same man and Bull does not -

Bull drops and the sound is pulled out of his lungs as he falls and he lands again. He didn’t feel himself shifting position - but without sight or real sound or sensation to guide him, Bull is only guessing - but he doesn’t land on his feet, this time he lands on his back. And again. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, based on the fall.

He gets up, but it feels like the air is weighing down on him, pushing him deep, down, dense. It feels like there are hands holding him down, pushing down on his chest, his shoulders, his thighs, his ankles, his stomach, his hands, his elbows. Hands are pushing him down and Bull groans as he tries to stand, body shaking as he presses against pressure.

“Oh, fuck you,” Bull breathes out as he struggles to push up onto his elbows, “You bitter old fuck.”

The hands, the pressure, increases with spite and vigor and Bull feels his lips curl back over his teeth as he feels something pulling down on his horns, dragging him down flat.

“No, really,” Bull says through his teeth as he strains against what he can tell, with a sinking feeling in his gut, is a quickly losing battle. “I mean it. You’re bitter and old and you couldn’t look at reality and understand what it means for time to move on and you glorified something that was put in the ground literal centuries ago. Fuck on off and go rest with that dust and dreams.”

It feels like the pinpricks of nails dig into his skin,  his throat, his wrists, his stomach, his ankles, and Bull wants to spit at something.

And then a hand, cold, solid-but-not, and  _present_  in the way the force pushing down on him isn’t, seizes his wrist and  _pulls_.

Bull grunts as he’s suddenly broken out of the pressure’s grip and pulled at a speed he can  _sense_  and feel with a displacement of air and  _space_  away.

 _Run,_  a voice familiar and startling in its clarity, urgency, and overall  _sincerity_  commands.  _Run!_

Bull finds his legs and he runs, and the running is strange. It feels as though he is running over rough terrain, then smooth, then slippery like ice, then uneven and somewhat jagged against the soles of his boots, and then strange and buoyant. The hand is firm around his wrist and Bull sees nothing, but he can slowly start to hear things again. Wind.

The running of other feet. The breathing of other things.

Plural.

 _Do not let yourselves be parted_ , Solas says over the sound of rushing wind, of Bull’s breath as he runs, Bull’s heart pounding in his chest.  _You cannot let yourselves be cornered. You cannot win alone_.

“It wasn’t you,” Bull gasps in between breaths that are slowly becoming disturbingly hot and humid. Like an exhale.

They never thought to question it, but it wasn’t Solas. The realization strikes Bull between the eyes, dumb. In their lives when has something  _not been Solas_?

This, apparently.

“Ellana,” Bull breathes out and Solas’ hand squeezes around his wrist, tight and ghostly in a way that’s different than the malevolence he just rescued Bull from.

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, another hand in his.

Bull collides with another body - warm, solid, damp with sweat,  _tangible and real_ , and as though they were cut and pasted into a black screen, there’s Ellana. Clear as anything. Her face is pale and her hair is a mess and her clothes are torn in some places and there’s bruising around her neck, but she’s there and alive and she’s staring up at him in relief and surprise.

“It was Solas,” Ellana says at the same time Bull says, “It wasn’t Solas.”

They blink at each other.

“It wasn’t Solas who was killing the people in the area,” Bull says, “There’s something else here, and I think he’s there with it, but not necessarily  _helping_  it.”

“You’re right. Solas rescued me. And -  he rescued you too?” Ellana asks, hesitant.

The hand around Bull’s wrist squeezes and he looks down and sees his hand and Ellana’s being folded together.

Her hand is damp in his and he imagines his is just as wet.

 _Don’t let go_ , Solas’ ghost tells them, crushing their hands together,  _Don’t let go_.

“Yeah,” Bull tells her. “He saved me.”

Bull can hear the sound of many voices and feet from behind him - and coming from behind Ellana, too. Ellana turns, stepping closer to him, color draining further from her face as they stand with multiple unknown hostiles closing in on them.

Solas’ hand closes over Bull’s shoulder and he says -

_And now, wake._

Sound, color, sensation, gravity, temperature, pressure, and reality rush to the surface and Bull jolts, falling to his knees onto cold, frozen, pre-dawn grass.

Ellana gasps next to him, their hands still squeezing each other’s.

They look up, slowly turning together to see the house that just spat them out.

Four walls. One roof. Concrete.

“It’s not enough,” Ellana says, coughing, voice rough. “It’s not enough to hold - to hold  _them_.”

Whatever they are.

“We’ll build a bigger trap,” Bull says. And then slowly, “He left you the property. He left you the assets. He left you the money.”

Ellana’s nails dig into his hand as she squeezes tight.

“We need to tell the others.”


	232. Chapter 232

"So. You're dead."

“As a doornail,” Ellana confirms, nodding solemnly and then puling her shirt up, exposing her chest. “Here, take a feel. No heartbeat. Also no pulse. Lungs work because I need air to talk. Other than that, not doing so good on the circulatory and respiratory side of things.”

Bull pulls her shirt back down.

“You are not a doornail.”

“Well. I’m dead as one,” Ellana shrugs. “So. You, me, end of the world and zombies?”

“I thought.” Bull stops there because he doesn’t actually know what he thought. “Alright. Fine. Okay. So…are you going to try and eat my brain?”

“No thank you,” Ellana says, “I don’t feel that hungry? I mean. I think I’ve been back from the dead for about a week so far and not once have I felt the  _rrrrr brainsss_  urge that’s so prevalently haunted our fiction for the past several decades. Or, I could just be saying that to lull you into a false sense of security so that I can get easier access to your brains.”

“Well, you’re definitely Ellana,” Bull muses.

Ellana grins at him. It’s only a little disconcerting when paired with her slightly milky eyes and the off-gray shade of her skin. Complete with darkened veins.

“So, what’s it like being not-dead?” Bull asks.

“Kind of boring,” Ellana says, shrugging. “Can’t feel heat. Can’t feel cold. Haven’t felt hungry or thirsty. I don’t sleep. So there’s mostly just a lot of time. I also can’t smell or taste anything. I licked a metal pole just to see if I could taste anything and nope. Nada.”

“You couldn’t have found something more - “

“Sanitary, Bull? I’m dead, what’s going to come and get me?” Ellana rolls her eyes. “So. How’ve things been going since I died-not-died?”

“Well. Most of us didn’t want to think you were dead,” Bull says. “They’re still looking for you right now, actually.”

“Probably should get on that. Stop wasting resources and putting people in danger and stuff,” Ellana says, nodding at Bull’s hand-held radio that Dagna and Sera cobbled together after drinking coffee made from very old coffee grounds and then mixing it up with as many expired energy drinks as the could get their hands on.

They made about two dozen radios from scrap and somehow managed to get them all onto two or three frequencies but they also entered cardiac arrest. The jury is still out if that’s a success or not.

“Right. Out of curiosity - do you remember what. Uh. Got you?”

Ellana mimes gnawing on something and then stabbing something and then holds her arms out like a zombie, “Got me, got me?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t remember,” Ellana says, shrugging. “I do wake up thinking,  _wow, that sucked_  though.”

“Also, to settle the inevitable arguing that will happen when I reveal that you are alive, where were you?”

“I was scouting a gas station that looked like some scavengers might’ve forgotten to check. I mean, it was boarded up and stuff but none of the boards were broken or tagged or anything so I thought maybe it was a good supply place. To the northeast of here, maybe two days out? By the dam.”

“The dam we avoid because it’s toxic?”

“That’s the one.”

Bull gives her a look as he clicks his radio on, “Search is off. She came back. She’s also a zombie, but not the kind we shoot the head off of.”

“She’s a what.” Cassandra replies back immediately, voice raising and cutting over everyone else’s as they crowd into the frequency.

“Zombie. Dead.”

“As a doornail,” Ellana chimes in, stepping closer to him and angling her face so she can try talking into the radio. “To settle any bets or future arguments, it was by the toxic lake. Hindsight twenty twenty, you know?”

“Absolutely amazing,” Dorian breathes, sarcasm practically oozing out of the radio, “Well. Why the hell not, I guess. I’m going back to base. Ellana are you the sort of undead with a rotting smell?”

“Rude. You don’t just ask a lady about her smells,” Ellana says. “Also, I don’t have sense of smell anymore. Bull, sniff me.”

Ellana shoves her hands at him and Bull gently pushes her away, “She doesn’t smell. She looks like shit, though.”

Ellana gasps, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Now I’m terribly embarrassed. I thought that I was doing quite well based on what I could see without a reflective surface. All my skin and bones are where they should be and everything.”

“You can let Stitches be the judge of that,” Cullen says, “I’m going to tell them to call the dogs back, now. This might explain why we couldn’t find you with them. Your scent has probably changed.”

“Again with the smells,” Ellana sighs. “So fixated on the smells.”

“Yeah, end of the world and crumbling of society and stuff, who thought we’d focus so much on smells?” Sera says.

Bull and Ellana look up to see Sera and Cole standing in the open doorway, radio held in Cole’s hands as Sera puts her hands on her hips.

“Alright, someone who isn’t the Iron Bull’s confirmed it. She’s alive and not an eating-your-brain-for-snacks zombie. I think. Probably. I mean, she’s coherent, which is something, yeah?”

Sera immediately goes in for a hug and the two women embrace. Sera, unsubtly, gives Ellana a sniff.

“She smells but all of us smell, it’s not a gross smell, it’s just a stinky unwashed body smell. So go shower, stinky,” Sera says, stepping back. “Also, no visible signs of decomposition, we’re gonna need a full exam, though.”

“Are you here to welcome me back or start the preliminary research?” Ellana asks, exasperated.

“It can’t be both? Ugh. Creepy eyes. Hey - do you think they still do the glow in the dark thing? Let’s go try it. Shower’s gonna wait. Science and stuff. Let’s go.”

“Welcome back,” Cole says as Sera drags Ellana out by the wrist.

“Thanks, Cole,” Ellana says as she rounds the corner into the hallway.

Cole slowly turns to Bull, “I mostly meant that for you.”

“I didn’t go anywhere,” Bull says.

Cole blinks and tilts his head, “Didn’t you?”


	233. Chapter 233

"I like it here,” Lavellan says.

She stands looking more at peace with herself than he’s ever seen her before in his life. He realizes, now, that he has seen her happy. He has seen her furious. He has seen her in the throes of grief. He has seen her apoplectic with rage and hurt and frustration and disbelief. He has seen her proud and unabashed. The Iron Bull has seen her torn with stress and scrambled back together under pressure.

He fell in love with her, at her most extreme.

He has never seen her like this.

At peace.

“Yeah?” He asks as he climbs the slope of the rocky hillside to stand closer to her. This jut of green cliff overlooks a large and verdant valley that the sun just happens to glance at just right on this particular morning.

The air is cold, and fresh, and clear. Invigorating.

“Here I am not their chosen one,” Lavellan says, the wind lifting a few strands of her dark hair. “I am not the chosen one of some god. Nor am I  _unchosen_  by some god. I am nothing here. I am no one.”

Bull doesn’t know what to say to that. He has lived his life being no one, being a number and an identification code. He has lived a great portion of his life not knowing that he wasn’t alright with that because he didn’t know there was another way to think, that he was not incorrect for thinking differently.

He has spent a majority of his life - to the point where if he lived to eighty he’d still be at that strong majority - understanding himself as a faceless, nameless material to be molded at the will of a greater authority.

It is just now, in these past few years, like a stumbling child, that he is beginning to unlearn, unbind, unshackle this from himself in order to unearth what he had considered flaws in his training.

“And what are you?” Bull asks.

“I am a woman,” Lavellan says, “No more, no less than any other man or woman who lives and breathes. Here I am a woman who makes medicine and cuts vegetables and tends a goat and some chickens. Here I am a woman with a simple house that I traded herbs and potions and healing to get help for building. Here I am a woman who can tell pretty stories or sing nice songs and toss out riddles. But I am not the chosen of a god. Nor am I the pinnacle of destruction. Or the beacon of hope. Or a symbol. Or a martyr. Or a rallying cry. Or anything else metaphysical and unreal.”

Bull remains silent as they watch the sun slowly stretch out over the valley, the wind creating waves on the green grass below.

“What do they call you, here?” Bull asks.

“Sabrae,” Lavellan says. “Our clans were kin, once. I think I have a cousin who’s still in that clan. There aren’t many Dalish tribes here. They wouldn’t know the family trees, anyway.”

Lavellan breathes out a long sound taken by the wind.

“Did they send you to find me?”

Bull could lie. She would know, and it would be a waste of a lie.

“Yes,” Bull answers.

Of course the Inquisition sent him. He’s the only one among them who’s only job is to be by her side. There is no higher goal or greater purpose.

Pavus has priorities and responsibilities in Tevinter. Sera runs a network of spies and saboteurs. Cassandra has an entire group of templars and Seekers that she’s been diligently repairing when she isn’t busy being the Divine of Thedas. Vivienne runs the Circle. Blackwall lives in a cycle of penance. Varric runs Kirkwall as much as he runs with it. Cole is…Cole.

Bull’s only purpose, his only duty, his only job is to be near her. To stand with her. To follow her.

There’s nothing to distract him from that. There’s nothing she can throw in his way to get him to leave, nothing that the world can throw at him to distract him from that.

Besides.

No one else knows her as deeply as he does.

Pavus was her best friend. Sera was her playmate and rival. Cole was her brother.

Solas was her teacher.

And Bull was everything else and in between.

“I would have said no,” Bull says.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Then don’t.”

“Why did they send you?”

She does not mean  _why him specifically_. She knows why.

“They need you.”

“I need me,” Lavellan says, and she means it in the way that Hissrad needed to become the Iron Bull, in the way that Cole needed to be Cole, in the way that Dorian Pavus needed to be Dorian Pavus, the way that all of them needed to understand and be at peace and unity with their real selves without the hunger of the world gnawing them into another shape. “There are other symbols to start wars over.”

“Not so many as decorated as you, Dragon Slayer, God Killer, Herald and Sword of Andraste, Inquisitor of Thedas, First-Thaw, and Keeper of Lavellan.”

“As if we do not all live in perpetual fear and awe of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, bringer of storms, tamer of lightning, keeper of shapes, breather of fire, Paragon of Dwarves, curse breaker, and earth shaker,” Lavellan muses. “As if we do not breathe awe in the face of Hawke, malificar of Tevinter, shatterer of cities, Champion of Kirkwall, survivor of many, guardian of gates.”

“But they are not the one we turn to when there is a tear in the sky, or a disruption in space, or a god or seven bearing down upon a people with the wrath of pride on their tongues,” Bull points out. “They are not the ones who they look to to kill a god.”

“Or nine.”

“Two are already dead.”

“What’s seven more?”

Bull shrugs.

Lavellan’s arms turn out a little, as though she is trying to soak in this last vestige of peace.

“I love me,” Lavellan says, “I love being me. I loved  _finding_  me again. I loved living as me and I loved loving me.”

“I wouldn’t have come,” Bull says. Because he does know. “I would have said no.”

“But you didn’t.” Lavellan’s arms fold down and he can feel it in the way her shoulders draw up. Like armored plates sliding into place, one over the other, reducing a person to a silhouette meant for hurting. “I wish I could stay here. As me.”

“I wish I could leave you here,” Bull says. “I still can. I could say I didn’t find you. If you asked.”

“You know I won’t ask.”

“Tell me, instead of asking me.”

“You know I can’t do that, either.”

“Should I do it for you?”

Lavellan’s eyes glisten, wet and heartbroken as she looks up at him.

“No. But I’ll do this for you,” She says, voice cracking, “Kadan, will you remember the woman you found here? Will you remember her for me?”

The first tear loses the fight against gravity as it slides down her face, quickly followed by several other brothers and sister.

“Kadan,” Bull says gently, “I will love her. I will grieve for her. But I will not be the reason why she leaves here.”


	234. Chapter 234

"So, please correct me if I'm wrong, but I do want to clarify this whole situation,” Dorian says slowly, pen hovering over paper as he slowly parses out the words to make sure he’s understanding what he’s hearing and hasn’t accidentally - somehow - lost all meaning of language, “You saw the Iron Bull from the river. And you  _jumped_  out of the water to try and in his arms. Because he’s… _muscular_.”

“They don’t build them like that in the ocean,” The mermaid says, nodding sagely.

“Muscular?” Dorian asks. “Mer-people…don’t have muscles?”

“We do, but not like  _that_ ,” Lavellan says, turning to the Iron Bull and sighing dreamily. “My da is three times his size but da doesn’t look like that. And my ma is  _twice_  da’s size easy and she doesn’t look like that either.”

Dorian’s mind fizzles out at the idea that there are living creatures six times as large as the Iron Bull just swimming about the ocean.

“And you’re - excuse me if I’m being incredibly forward or rude or what have you, they don’t teach you merperson etiquette in finishing school - but are you going to grow to be that size? Approximately?”

They’re going to need a bigger tank, for one thing, if that’s true. And that’s if they don’t figure out how to convince her to get back to the ocean. This is a task that Cassandra and Cullen are failing spectacularly at and the Iron Bull isn’t trying very hard at accomplishing.

If a merman as beautiful as Lavellan just happened to throw himself out of the water into Dorian’s waiting arms, he supposes he wouldn’t be trying very hard about it either.

“Maybe,” Lavellan shrugs, “I’m told that I remind my da and ma of my gran, and she ended up being about the size of that thing.”

Lavellan points and Dorian turns to see a Josephine coming off of a wagon.

“Andraste, I am not the right person to be doing this,” Dorian says, a touch faint. “I’m a necromancer and a theoretical mathematician and a politician and many, many other things but I am  _not_  a zoologist. Josephine, love, darling, beautiful savior in ruffles, has anyone considered  _looking for a zoologist_? Maybe Frederic in that he studies things no one else studies and Lavellan has scales and I would like to think that’s close enough.”

Josephine looks apologetic, “We did try Frederic, actually. But he’s been. Erm. Waylaid.”

Dorian swears, “Eveyln’s killed another damn dragon hasn’t she.”

“Two, on her way to a third right now, actually,” Josephine says, gently laying her hand on Dorian’s arm, “She’s trying to get them out of the way while the Iron Bull is occupied. You know how he. Um. Gets.”

“Aroused by dragons? Yes. I’m aware.” And he really wishes he wasn’t. “Lavellan, this is Josephine. She’s the Inquisition’s ambassador. She’s basically our best foot forward.”

“What’s a foot?”

Josephine and Dorian exchange glances before Josephine raises her leg a little and points downward.

“This is a foot. It’s an expression. We say  _put your best foot forward_  because when we walk we use our feet. So we like to put our best foot forward to make a good impression.”

“Oh,” Lavellan says. “Is the Iron Bull your best arm forward?”

Josephine’s smile is polite, sincere, and incredibly lovely and Dorian is ready to leave her to this but Josephine’s hand turns into a tight clamp around his arm and sits him back down even as she gracefully lowers herself onto the bench that’s been placed by the giant, crude, wooden tub they’ve made to hold Lavellan.

“Explain,” Josephine says out of the corner of her mouth.

“She likes his muscles. Apparently they don’t make them like that under water,” Dorian says. “But they do make them the size of wagons, which is what our dear Lavellan here will possibly grow into. This bucket, Ambassador, as you can surmise, is going to get a tad cramped.”

-

“She likes you for your body,” Pentaghast says, “Apparently there isn’t anyone like you under water.”

“Honestly, there’s no one like you above water, either,” Varric says, “I don’t blame her.”

“A lot of people like me for my body,” Bull says. “You aren’t going to drown me just so you can send her back to where she came from.”

“We need to get rid of her before Evelyn realizes that half of her colleagues are busy trying to get rid of a mermaid,” Cassandra says. “And then Evelyn will come  _here_  and  _befriend_  the mermaid and then we’re done.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Varric asks.

“Where,” Cassandra says with exaggerated patience and politeness, “Do you suppose we would put a  _mermaid_  in Skyhold, Varric?”

“Point.”

“And then Evelyn would always be here,” Bull sighs, “Got it. Either way, you’re not going to toss me into the ocean to get rid of her.”

“Talk her into leaving,” Cassandra says “You talk half of us into leaving just by opening your mouth at any given moment. For Pavus sometimes all you have to do is scratch your ass and he’s gone.”

“He’s a Tevinter noble with weird etiquette standards who also happens to loathe me, I don’t think that’s going to work on a mermaid,” Bull points out.

“Hit on her,” Varric says, “Or try making a conversation. Maybe she’ll think you’re annoying and clear out. I mean, it works whenever you want to get rid of Solas.”

“Okay, but she’s not Solas, either,” Bull points out.

“Do you not want her to go?”

“Not really, nah.”

“Bull, you can’t  _bring a mermaid with you_ ,” Cassandra says. “And apparently this mermaid is going to grow to the size of a fully loaded wagon.”

Bull and Varric’s eyes widen and they turn to each other.

“Nice,” They bump fists, laughing.

Cassandra endures this exchange with a long-suffering glare, “How are you going to transport a mermaid the size of a wagon? With enough water to keep her alive and comfortable? Tell me.”

“De Fer and Pavus have money,” Bull says, “They’d spend it for this.”

“Why?”

“Because Evelyn would ask Pavus nicely and I’d ask de Fer nicely, and then the two would try to out-nice each other when they find out the other was asked at the same time,” Bull says.

“Point,” Varric nods.

Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose, “Water regularly freezes at Skyhold.”

“Magic serves man or something,” Bull says, “What better use than helping mermaids?”


	235. Chapter 235

“Mages these days have lot the art,” Solas bemoans from three rooms over.

Ellana turns and stares at her familiar, “I am going to disassemble this entire tower brick by brick,  _by hand_.”

The raven blinks at her and returns to preening his glossy feathers.

“You’re not the one who has to deal with him being  _insufferable_  because he can’t stand the idea of the world progressing through time -  _shocking!_  - and changing in ways he doesn’t like,” Ellana says. “ _It’s not the stone ages,_  things change, people change, magic changes.”

Ellana raises her voice so she can be heard, “ _Sometimes_  people  _don’t_  use the still steaming  _viscera_  of a mouse or the  _fresh scat_  of an  _owl_  to scry.”

Solas is the only person Ellana knows who can make silences sound like tirades about  _tradition_  and  _old ways_  and  _legacy_.

He is also the only person Ellana knows who can turn right around and when preached at about substituting in feathers from a magpie instead of using  _proper crow_  feathers and start throwing jinxes.

Ellana is starting to consider taking a nap in one of the higher tower rooms, farther away from her complaining mentor and in a nice sunny patch, when her raven looks out at the sky and begins to puff up in the way she knows means he’s about to be very prissy about another bird being in the area.

Lanval is the only bird she’s ever met that considers  _every_  other bird a rival to immediately be fought and subdued in order to prove dominance. Even dead ones. Somehow,  _especially the cooked ones_. She recalls that once she watched him fight a boiled egg for about ten minutes. She’s not sure  _how_  Lanval considered himself a victor over a boiled egg after pecking and aggressively puffing up at it for ten minutes. But something must have gone on there because he now no longer cares about boiled eggs. Though he will, occasionally, prance around a bowl of them as if to show off.

No one ever said familiars had to be particularly smart.

Better than Solas’ familiar.

The wolf keeps putting fish on windowsills and getting disappointed when they start to smell after being exposed to the sun for hours.

She’s not sure what Fen means to happen when he puts the fishes on the windows, but it’s not rot and decay, apparently.

Ellana firmly brushes Lanval off of the wide windowsill. Lanval caws out and flutters his wings before retreating to sulk on top of a stack of books on the other side of the room.

A lovely hawk lands on the window a few minutes later, holding out its leg to Ellana to take the message. The hawk stares at Lanval. Lanval stares back.

Ellana ignores the two birds currently having a figurative pissing contest and takes the message, idly stroking a finger down the hawk’s breast.

_Ellana, my dear friend, I am in a spot of trouble and could use your assistance. I will be sending the Iron Bull to come fetch you as I am in the process of assembling a party to gather at the old ruins by Haven. Please let me know if you are available and if we have permission from your mentor for you to participate in what may be quite a long and arduous quest._

_Yours,_

_Evelyn_

“She doesn’t have to be so formal about it,” Ellana says to the birds who are still staring down at each other, “She really ought to have been Solas’ apprentice. The two practically breathe tradition and etiquette and proper ways whenever they aren’t working at destroying them. Though I’m not quite certain if a human is capable of learning the magic that Solas teaches.”

Ellana flips the message over and sees a quickly scrawled note in a different hand.

_El - just come and don’t mind the fuss, there’s dragons about, can’t wait to see you, ta - Max_

“Now there’s how you do it,” Ellana says, hitting the note against her open palm. “Alright, time to start packing.”

As Ellana turns to find some paper and a pen to write her enthusiastic  _yes! I’m game! I’ll be waiting at the crossroads!_  she hears, clear as day and as distinctly as if it were being said right next to her -

“I do not give permission.”

Ellana’s head jerks up and she glares at the wall that would attach to the next room, and the room after that, and the room after that, and the room where Solas is currently.

“I don’t need it.”

“She did ask for it.”

“Did she send you a letter?”

“She sent me a letter.”

Ellana groans, throwing her hands up, “Sod the proper way. I’m just going out for a bit to do a bit of questing with my friends. Apologies that no one ever invites  _you_  to go questing, you bore.”

“I am wounded by your words,” Solas says, dry as the cinnamon sticks hanging in the cellar. “You aren’t going.”

“Like hell I’m not going, there’s going to be dragons.”

“Exactly why you aren’t going. There’s also a plague, an undead horde, two armies, and a cursed horse. You are not going.”

“Is that all? Don’t you trust me to be able to handle that?”

“No.”

Lanval croaks an incredibly angry sound.

“Lanval’s right! We’ve finished our apprenticeship ages ago! I am more than fully capable of accompanying her on a quest!”

“Oh, forgive me, I didn't realize - at what point did we actually have the finishing ceremony again? In my old, old age I must have forgotten the entire part where you  _moved out of my house_  and gained your own name and established our own territory. Remind me of that again?”

Ellana glares at the wall.

She imagines Solas isn’t even bothering to glare back.

“I’m going,” Ellana says.

“You can say that all you want, you aren’t,” Solas says.

“The Iron Bull will most likely be here within three or four days and I’m going with him.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“Yes, I am.”

“There are plenty of other magic users. Trevelyan is one of them.”

“But she’s from a different school of magic.”

“There’s a shame, then.”

“You’re just doing this to be petty and mean and spiteful,” Ellana says, writing a quick note to Max and Evelyn and tying it to the hawk’s leg. “And I’m leaving.”

Solas is also the only person who can make silence sound like the words _go ahead and try it, see what happens_. It instills in Ellana a foreboding sense that if she did go ahead and try it, she would indeed see what happens, and it would not be in her favor.

“I’m going to go with the Iron Bull,” Ellana says, pressing on.

“We’ll see.”

“Yes. We will, see.”


	236. Chapter 236

The next note is written in Bull’s steady, even, enviously neat hand.

 _Your house is moving. Get it to stay still_.

Ellana crumples the note up and tosses into the fire. The fire nibbles on the note a little before spitting it out and nearly hitting Lanval.

Lanval voices his displeasure by loudly cursing, spreading his wings, and  _nearly_  knocking over a jar of highly flammable ingredients that Ellana has been distilling for the past three months.

Ellana groans and hits her head against the stone wall.

The messenger hawk is deeply unimpressed and continues grooming herself.

“Skyhold, not you too,” She groans, “You can’t be on his side. I’m your favorite.”

The castle, predictably, says nothing.

Not so predictably, the room’s dimensions seem to squeeze  _inwards_  a few feet before abruptly releasing to their original size. Skyhold’s version of an awkward hug.

“You need to stay still,” Ellana says to the castle, “How can he find me if he doesn’t stay still? Ivy. I need ivy. Lanval, get me some ivy.”

Lanval is busy glaring, with all three of his eyes, at the hawk at the window.

“Lanval,  _some urgency_?” Ellana waves her arm.

Lanval caws loudly, “ _No_.”

Ellana glares at him, “I regret ever summoning you from the Fade.”

Lanval, the brat, pointedly raises a large wing and knocks her ingredients jar over onto the ground. It shatters, spilling viscous and pungent fluid onto the ground in a slowly spreading pool.

Skyhold’s stone floor seems to bend and dip to try and form a basin to contain the fluid while at the same time trying to shrink away from it.

Ellana covers her face with her hands as she listens to Lanval fly away and to another area of the room, presumably to look pompous and self-righteous about it all. To Ellana’s knowledge, Solas’ familiar’s never had so much attitude. Or maybe it’s all behind closed doors.

Mostly Fen just takes naps and steals fish from the kitchen and sulks about the inevitable consequences of his fish-stealing habits.

“Fine,  _I’ll_  get some ivy,” Ellana says, muttering under her breath, “I’ve got to do everything myself, apparently.”

There’s no ivy to be had on the entire Skyhold property. She’s checked. Thrice.

It’s been  _five days_.

In that time she’s had three more notes. One from Evelyn, one from Max, and one from Dorian.

Evelyn’s reads -  _It’s been three weeks, Bull can’t find you. What’s going on?_

Max’s reads -  _Your mentor is a right prick, did he seriously uproot your entire property to make sure you can’t come dragon slaying? Tad controlling, no?_   _Say the word, I’ll mount a rescue in a heartbeat._

And Dorian’s reads -  _I am perfectly wiling, ready, and able to rip open a time-dimensional rift to get you here. It would probably destroy a good portion of reality fantastically, but I’d do it. Also I’d do it just to prove I could, and because your mentor said I couldn’t._

There’s no note from Bull which somehow hurts a little. Not because he didn’t write, but because him not writing means he’s still waiting for her to fix this.

He’s not rushing her or asking her or questioning her. He’s just waiting because he knows she will and Ellana feels terrible because it’s been five days since his note, and that means he was waiting for almost two weeks for her already, and now Ellana feels awful.

Skyhold matches this mood appropriately by filtering all the sunlight to turn gray and gloomy.

“Put the sun back where it was,” Solas says to her, quite firmly over breakfast on the sixth day of finding no ivy.

“I didn’t take it, Skyhold just threw up some clouds in the windows. If you want sun just go outside,” Ellana says, poking at her bread before giving up and tossing it to Lanval who snatches it out of the air greedily. “You put back all the ivy.”

Solas raises a thin eyebrow. “Ivy? Were you going to bind something?”

“Don’t play dumb, geezer,” Ellana wrinkles her nose. “You damn well know I was. Give me the ivy.”

“I can’t give you the ivy because I didn’t take it. Also, how do you plan on binding Skyhold to a place if you don’t even know what place to bind it to? Even I don’t know where we are right now,” Solas says mildly.

Ellana blinks, and turns to Lanval who blinks each of his three eyes slightly out of synch back at her. Then she ducks her head under the table and Fen is sleeping at Solas’ feet, nose tucked underneath this tail.

“You don’t know where we are? I thought you moved Skyhold.”

Solas blinks, “Why would I move Skyhold?”

“So…the Iron Bull can’t find me and I can’t go on the quest?”

Solas’ eyebrows raise high on his head, “That seems like an awful amount of work considering I already said  _no_  and that counts as legally binding. Why would I move Skyhold on top of that?”

“Well if  _you_  didn’t move Skyhold and take the ivy who did?”

Solas sighs and wraps his long fingers around his teacup - he’s only been drinking it because he’s doing some sort of experiment on tea leaves and accuracy of fortunes - and shakes his head.

“Da’len, if I have to tell you the answer to that I am very seriously reconsidering why I thought you were worthy of being an apprentice. You tell _me_ , if I didn’t move Skyhold or take the ivy, and if  _you_  didn’t take the sun out of the windows,  _who did_?”

Ellana stares at him, and then slowly puts her head in her hands, staring dumbly at the table.

Lanval hops over the wood and gently nuzzles his beak against her wrist and croaks out, “Bad castle.”

“ _Skyhold you traitor_ ,” Ellana says, “I can’t believe it. You’re siding with him over me! _”_

Solas takes a sip of tea and grimaces. He looks sorely tempted to just dump the thing out.

“Look at it this way, if I  _did_  give you permission it looks like Skyhold wouldn’t have anyway,” Solas says, “In case you were looking to put this to a vote, that would be two against one. You aren’t going.”


	237. Chapter 237

“What happened to you?” Bull asks, staring as Ellana fights her way out of some incredibly thick shrubs. There’s tree branches and leaves sticking out of her hair and there’s a sort of wild and crazed look in her eyes like she’s just gone through some sort of bizarre and terrifying ordeal. The light of Bull’s lantern glints ominously in her eyes.

“I got out,” Ellana wheezes, eyes darting from side to side, “Alright, let’s go.”

“Do you have Solas’ word that you can come?” Bull asks, standing up and hefting his sword back over his shoulder and holding his hand out for one of her bags.

Ellana blinks up at him and smiles very sweetly, “Fuck his word.”

Bull stares at her and sighs, firmly putting a hand on her shoulder and turning her around, “We need to get his word.”

“No we don’t.”

“Yes, we really do. I don’t want to be put up for execution for stealing a man’s apprentice from under his nose without permission,” Bull says. “The last guy who was convicted guilty of that was ripped in half while still alive. I am not getting ripped in half while still alive for this quest.”

Ellana frowns, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“No, we’re getting that word,” Bull says.

Ellana groans, “I should’ve lied.”

“You can’t,” Bull says, “It’s against your nature to lie.”

“I wish I entered apprenticeship with another type of magic user,” Elllana says, digging her heels into the ground as Bull pushes her back towards where she came from. “I mean, at the time the magic of the forests and faeries seemed so very lovely and mysterious and intriguing. If I’d have known it would mean I could never lie again I definitely would’ve chosen something else. Maybe something stoic or scientific, like necromancy or astrology.”

“Pavus and Trevelyan both say that astrology is a fake magic.”

“Well, shows what they know,” Ellana huffs.

Above them Lanval caws, circling them - a barely discernible shadow in the night - before lowering. Ellana holds out her arm and the raven lands, wings held aloft for balance as he tilts his head this way and that.

“Going back?” He croaks.

“Yup.”

“The word?”

“Yup.”

“Shit,” Lanval says before pushing off and returning to the sky, blending into the spaces between stars and not-stars. Bull’s been around mage territory long enough to know that sometimes the lights in the sky aren’t stars. And even if they’re not within seeing distance of Skyhold Bull’s not a novice enough to think that they’re out of range.

“Yup,” Bull agrees. “So, why did he say no?”

“He thinks I can’t handle it,” Ellana says.

“He moved an entire castle out of worry for your security?”

“Oh, no. Skyhold moved because it didn’t want me to leave because it turns out it was worried I wouldn’t come back and it would be terribly lonely. I can empathize. An eternity with just Solas and Fen? I’d cling to whoever else I could get, too. Did you know his latest project is tea leaves? Tea leaves! I’ve never drunk so much tea in my life! It’s terrible! I never want to drink tea again!”

Bull hums, “Is there anyway I can get him to say yes?”

“Kill him,” Ellana says in perfect seriousness, “It wouldn’t stick, but we could probably get it to stick long enough to work some binding spells and then I’d be set to go with or without his say-so.”

“I’m not going to temporarily kill your mentor, the Dread Wolf, legendary mage of the mountains,” Bull says. “I don’t care if he’d find it a mild annoyance at best, Ellana, I’m not killing him, I’m not getting killed, and we’re doing this the traditional way because we both know Evelyn won’t even hesitate to boot you back here if she finds out we didn’t get his stupid word.”

Ellana groans, slipping out from under his hand like so much shadow before circling his waist from around back, underneath his cloak.

“Mind the sword; I’ve been sharpening it for the past three weeks waiting for you,” Bull says as Ellana nuzzles her face against his back and whines something incomprehensible to him. She sounds awful petulant so it’s probably not a spell.

“I hate doing things the traditional way.” She says, raising her voice to be heard.

“Shouldn’t have apprenticed to a traditional mage.” Bull shrugs, holding his lantern out and recognizing nothing.

“I’m beginning to get that now, thanks much. Where were you, say, twenty five or so years ago when I made that particular life choice?”

“Making my own not-so-good life choices. Come on, back up front; I don’t know the way to Skyhold.”

“I don’t either,” Ellana says, reluctantly coming out from underneath his cloak. “Do you know how hard it was for me to get out of it? Now I’ll never be able to leave. I had to make artificial ivy.”

“Artificial?”

“It took a lot of complicated spell work and gracious use of loop holes and technicalities,” Ellana says. “But it got me to you.”

Bull hums, “We’ll figure something out. Come on. Skyhold likes you, it shouldn’t be too hard for you to find your way back.”

Ellana’s shoulder slump and Lanval calls out from above them.

Ellana raises her hand, eyes glowing with light that is not from the lantern or the stars or the not-stars. Lanval glows above them, turning ghostly white.

“Straight ahead,” Ellana says, “Through the arch of the holly and fir. On the path of pine.”

“Again, you’re going to have to lead. I can’t tell as well as you,” Bull says, taking her hand in his.

“I could lead you on a spirit path far away from here and you’d never know,” Ellana says, stepping forward. Her first footfall releases a wave of scent, crushed and fresh pine. The footfall itself is soundless. The forest groans around them, as though parting.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Bull says. “But you wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

“No,” Ellana says, “I wouldn’t. I should, though. There’s no rules about misleading someone or pulling them off a path. In fact it’s practically mandatory.”

“But not me.”

“No, not you,” Ellana agrees. “Come on. Lanval says Solas is making a second dinner for us. Either that or he’s going to cook us and eat us as the next step of his study on tea leaves.”


	238. Chapter 238

“Where’s Max?”

Auror Ellana Lavellan, Champion of the most recent TriWizard Tournament Games, star of her year, and general all around force of nature, bursts into the medi-ward with the power of a typhoon and the attention-attracting flare of a Slytherin.

Bull glances up from where he’s been sitting for the past ten minutes since Trevelyan was admitted for emergency procedures to try and intercept her to let her know that it’s going to be okay. Trevelyan got splinched when some idiot tried to grab on for a ride-along. Probably thought they could knock Trevelyan off his game and stop him from apparating.

Overall the splinch isn’t so bad, the Healers should be able to put it to rights easy and Trevelyan will be up and going again within a day or so. He didn’t lose anything vital, after all.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the Nurse-witch says, speaking in soothing tones and raising her hands to try and get Ellana to focus on her instead of looking like she’s going to shred the entire hospital apart to find her friend, “Auror Trevelyan has gone in for treatment. When he’s out we will let you know.”

“Alright,” Ellana says, nodding once and stiffly, “What is his current status?”

“I’m sorry ma’am,” the nurse-witch swallows nevously, “I cannot tell you about the patient’s medical information.”

Ellana blinks once and very slowly. “Pardon?”

Bull winces.

“When his family arrives and give you the appropriate clearance, I will be more than happy to tell you - “

“Gives. Me.  _Clearance_ ,” Ellana Lavellan stares the nurse-witch down. “Excuse me. What do you mean by,  _gives me clearance_? Do you mean to tell me that I, myself, cannot see Maxwell?”

“No. Those are the rules, ma’am,” The nurse-witch is beginning to look, in Bull’s book, appropriately nervous.  “After immediate procedure the only ones allowed in are the next of kin and higher authorities relevant to any criminal proceedings.”

“I work with him, I’m an auror,” Ellana says immediately, “Seeing as he was injured in the line of action, I am now relevant to this. I’m going to see him. And I will be told of his welfare.”

The nurse-witch blanches and slowly looks in Bull’s direction, “Ah. Are you - also on the same case?”

Ellana slowly turns her iron gaze to him and Bull swears that this woman hates him so much that she’s going to hex him out of existence someday. He’s not sure what everyone else thinks he’s missing, but he’s pretty sure they’re  _wrong_.

Ellana’s jaw slowly works and with great visible effort she turns her eyes back on the nurse-witch and says, very calmly, very quietly, “He’s my Maxwell. I live with him. I’m his best friend. I’m his partner. I am his family. I will see him when he is out of treatment. I will be informed of his current status and what further issues may arise and what treatment will be. Are you going to stop me?”

The nurse-witch looks like she’s going to cry.

“Can I step in on this one?” Bull asks before this can go any further, “I’m working the case. I’m his squad chief. With my authority can you release this information to her?”

Before the nurse-witch can answer there’s a loud  _crack_  behind them and Bull and Ellana turn to see Evelyn Trevelyan, Head of the House of Trevelyan, prime-minister to be, one of the head speakers in the Ministry, and prominent socialite, and one of the fastest wand-draw’s and decorated duelists in all of Southern Thedas in the flesh. Her red-brown hair floats around her face as her robes settle from her apparition and she has the exact same look of wild panic Ellana had in her eyes when she came in moments ago.

“I need to see Max,” Evelyn says and then her eyes flick to Ellana, “Ellana, where’s Max? What happened to Max?”

“I don’t know, they won’t tell me anything aside from the fact that he’s undergoing a procedure right now,” Ellana says, “I’m not next of kin.”

Evelyn’s eyebrows shoot up, “Who won’t let you see him?”

Ellana turns pointedly at the nurse-witch who’s gone so pale she looks green, “It’s policy. I’m not next of kin. The Iron Bull was about to try and get me in with his authority.”

“Unnecessary,” Evelyn says striding up to them with the surety and grace of someone who’s had power in their hands since they were born and knows how to use it, “I’m the head of his House, I trust that my authority is good enough to make an alteration to Maxwell’s records that states that Ellana is more than qualified to be informed of Maxwell’s health and welfare? Andraste’s flame sword - she’s his Ellana and he’s her Maxwell. Now, updates?”

As Evelyn Trevelyan is given the run-down by the nurse who’s snapped into some sort of automatic response mode based on survival instinct Bull pulls Ellana aside to fill her in on the exact situation.

Ellana Lavellan’s gaze is focused, pointed, and unwavering as she nods, presses her lips together, and absorbs the information he gives her.

“He’s going to be okay,” Bull finishes, “I’m sure that compared to the TriWizard tournament this is nothing.”

“Hmm,” Ellana hums through her lips, brow furrowed. “I have to let Kaaras know. I told him as soon as I got the message but I told him to stay at the College until I got more information. There’s no apparating on College grounds.”

“Alright, I’ll let you know if anything changes,” Bull says. “I’m sorry. It happened on my watch.”

Ellana shakes her head, “No. It isn’t your fault and there’s nothing for you to be sorry for. Thank you, though.”

She looks up at him and says, carefully, “And thank you, for stepping in for me. I appreciate it. I won’t forget that.”

Considering that she hasn’t forgotten some sort of slight that’s caused her to hate him since they’ve met, he doesn’t doubt it. He hopes that this puts him on slightly better standing with her, though that’s not why he did it.

“Don’t think about it, go do what you have to do,” Bull says, nodding to her as she steps back towards the doorways that open to the main hall of the ward. “I’ll take care of this.”


	239. Chapter 239

Bull ends up knocking on the door five more times over the course of ten minutes, patience slowly grinding down to nothing.

The door opens just as he’s about to call it quits and find someone else.

The elf standing in the door is shirtless, pale hair in a long braid over his shoulder and trailing down his chest, and wearing the most annoyed expression Bull has ever seen on anyone’s face. He’s also go several tattoos, some of the magical.

One of the magical ones is a raven sitting over his heart that gives Bull a glare before gliding over the man’s shoulder and out of sight.

“Yes, and?” The man says, "Get on with it.”

“Are you - “

“Yes, speed it up. Get to it.”

“You’re not going to ask who I am?”

“You’ve got one eye, horns, missing fingers, and gray skin. Who else would you be? Get on with it.”

Bull glares down at the man. The man glares back up at him.

“Maxwell told me to come here. I need your help.”

“Again, I know. Get to the core of it. I don’t have all day,” The man snaps. “Ask the question.”

“Can you or can you not take care of the infant dracolisk that my team managed to rescue from a dracolisk smuggling ring?” Bull asks.

“No,” The man says and then proceeds to try and close the door on him. Bull’s arm shoots out and holds it open. The man glares harder than ever. “I said  _no_. Go away. You asked, I answered, it’s done.”

“May I know why not?” Bull asks. “Is this a personal thing? Because this animal needs a place and Maxwell swore up and down that you were that place.”

The man sucks on his teeth for a moment before he nods once and says, “Yes, it is very personal. And you’re out of luck. I already have seven dracolisk nests to look after. I can’t have one hatchling that’s been separated from its clutch just going about.”

The last part makes at least a little sense.

But -

“From what I’ve read this one can probably be snuck into one of your existing clutches with the right timing. Maxwell says you’ve done it before,” Bull presses.

The man scowls and he hisses through his teeth, “Get inside before the neighbors see you.”

“What neighbors?” Bull asks, baffled as the man suddenly throws the door open, causing Bull to almost fall into the house.

“The neighbors,” The man repeats.

“You live on an unpopulated plot of land magicked and barricaded from the rest of the world like you’re trying to keep out all life forms that weren’t brought here specifically, what neighbors?”

“I’m not the only one who minds the animals and this isn’t the only house.”

“I was under the impression that your family runs this wildlife preserve,” Bull says.

“Yes.”

“So your neighbors are?”

“The rest of the family.”

“Mahanon?” A voice from above calls, “I’m busy with the baby kneazles. Who was at the door?”

Mahanon scowls at the Iron Bull as he points at the nearest chair and gestures for Bull to sit down. “The Iron Bull, mother.”

There’s a loud yowling and then Mahanon glances upwards, briefly.

“Did you drop a kneazle?”

“She’ll live. Don’t serve him the good stuff,” The woman yells down, “And Mythal’s sake, whatever it is, tell him  _no_.”

“Does your entire family hate me?” Bull asks, “Is this a family thing? What did I do to you? Did I bust one of your cousins or something? Seriously.”

Mahanon stares him down for a full two minutes of silence before turning sharply on his heel and striding across through the hallway and into what Bull assumes is a kitchen because he hears the sounds of water, a stove, and rustling in cabinets.

He may about to be poisoned.

“Yes,” Mahanon says over these sounds, “It is a family thing. You damn well know what you did. You did not bust one of ours. Seriously.”

“Is there anyone in your family who doesn’t hate me?”

“I think there are some cousins on the other side of the preserve, but they’re ambivalent about everything after having to deal with griffons all day every day for the past seven years. They don’t count, they’re addled.”

Mahanon comes back into view, and in the most aggressive tone of voice Bull has ever heard, asks, “Do you take your tea with anything?”

“If I tell you I do will it actually matter?”

“I will not let you leave this house saying we were sub-par hosts. I will let you leave saying we are pricks, assholes, jerks, stuck-up prats, spiteful retches, so on and so forth, but I absolutely refuse to permit slander upon our name in saying we are bad hosts. Do you take your tea with anything?”

“No,” Bull says, eyebrows raising as Mahanon nods once and turns back into the kitchen.

The elf returns a few moments later - it must be a spelled kettle - with a cup of tea, some biscuits that look home made, and a small clear jar of amber colored honey. Bull wonders what the good stuff is if it isn’t this.

Mahanon puts it on the side table next to the chair Bull is sitting on before sitting himself down on the sofa, looking at Bull expectantly until he takes a sip.

He doesn’t taste poison.

Mahanon nods again and folds his hands on his crossed knee.

There’s a tattoo of a cat on his upper bicep that curls around his arm and focuses its eyes on Bull before resting its head on its paws, tail waving slowly as it watches him.

“Can I ask why your entire family, sans the griffon cousins, hates me? Explain it to me like I don’t know.”

He has no fucking clue. He doesn’t even remember ever seeing any of these people face to face. And he has a memory for faces.

“You have Maxwell Trevelyan on your team, obviously,” Mahanon says. And then stops there.

“Do you - not like Maxwell? You don’t like Maxwell so you don’t like me?”

“I, myself, find Maxwell an annoyance to be tolerated. He’s Ellana’s Maxwell. Whether anyone in this family likes Maxwell or not has nothing to do with why we hate you.”

“Then why mention Maxwell at all?”

Mahanon rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, “Aren’t you supposed to be smart? He’s on your team. What else is there?”

“I’m…not getting this,” Bull says.

Mahanon raises a hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Sylaise give me strength to deal with men without a single brain cell to rub a coherent thought together.  _Why isn’t my sister, Champion of her Age on your team?_ ”

Bull blinks.

“You’re…mad at me because your sister isn’t assigned to my auror team?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“ _Why_?” Mahanon repeats, looking as dumbfounded as Bull feels right now. “What do you mean  _why_? What sort of absolutely foolish question - why is  _Maxwell Trevelyan on your team instead of her_?”

“Because…he went through auror training first?”

“You scouted him!”

“He wanted to be an auror!”

“You didn’t ask my  _sister_. The far superior witch.”

“Your sister’s never expressed an interest. She said no to Hawke almost a dozen times!”

“So?”

“What do  _you_  mean  _so_?”

“Hawke isn’t  _you_ ,” Mahanon snaps. “Of course she said no to Hawke. You didn’t ask, though. You skipped her and went to Maxwell!”

“Maxwell was already in training!”

Bull feels like he’s missing something vital here.

“Besides, she hates me.”

“You are the absolute most foolish mountain of brain-dead flesh who’s all eyes and no sight I’ve ever had the displeasure of talking to,” Mahanon declares. “Finish your tea and biscuits and get out of my house. I’ll take the dracolisk but I’ll contact someone else on your team. I absolutely refuse to deal with you for a single moment more.”

“What am I missing here?” Bull asks, exasperated and angry and full out of patience.

“A brain,” Mahanon snaps, “My  _sister is in love with you,_ you numbskull!”


	240. Chapter 240

Bull sits down at his desk and stares out at this team as they go about their business.

Each of them  _knows_. He knows this without a single doubt in his head.

Cassandra Pentaghast knew.

Everyone knows.

Except him. Bull doesn’t know how he feels about that just yet. Mostly he’s stunned and really confused because none of this makes sense.

Bull’s eye lands on Maxwell who’s hurriedly researching dracolisk development and care seeing as they have about two weeks until they can integrate the one they’ve managed to save with a hatching clutch at the Lavellan preserve.

“Trevelyan,” Bull calls out.

When Maxwell looks up at him, ink stain on the bottom of his chin and slightly crazed look in his eye Bull says, “Why the fuck did no one think to tell me that your Ellana was in love with me?”

The entire room goes dead quiet.

Grim, who was actually in the middle of walking out of their offices, turns about face and closes the door, staring at him, mouth hanging open.

Skinner drops all of the files she was holding, each and every single page sliding out of her hands in a whispering rush of paper that pools out onto the floor around her.

Stitches’ eyes look like they are going to pop out of his head.

Bull can’t tell if Rocky is still breathing.

Dalish is crying, but he doesn’t think she knows that.

Krem reaches for something under his desk and everyone, including Maxwell, rushes over to him all of them talking at the same time. Krem’s holding up a ledger and underneath it what looks like a sack of gold.

“Were you shits betting on this?” Bull asks.

“What tipped you off?” Stitches asks, leaning over Krem’s shoulder as they all stare at him with baited breath.

“What gave it away, finally?” Krem says.

“Mahanon told me,” Bull tells them and all of them curse, swearing.

Rocky goes back to the door and yells out into the hallway into the open door to Miriam’s offices - “The brother spilled!”

“Wait - how many people are in on this bet?”

Rocky is almost run over by what looks like the entire auror department, and then some, flooding into his team’s office room, all of them clamoring over each other to see if they could in any way possible claim some of the money.

“Mahanon, that stupid blabber mouth,” Isabela says, “How could you have let him go there himself, Skinner? Obviously the Lavellans would tell out of  _spite_.”

“What were we supposed to tell him? No, you can’t go visit a possible resource because there’s a bet involved?”

“You know how to lie.”

“Is anyone going to tell me why I wasn’t told sooner?” Bull says over the gathering crowd.

“No, I have to tell her,” Maxwell is currently struggling to get out the door at the same time Carver is trying to get into the door, while it looks like Dalish is trying to climb over both of them to get out, and Bethany is in the hallway, attempting to shove Carver in so she can follow. “Listen, if I don’t personally tell her that he’s finally figured it out I am going to be in so much trouble that not even Kaaras could save me. Death could come for me and she would pry me from Death’s clutches and there would be no end to it. I need to be free of this curse.”

“Am I suddenly mute? Is no one hearing me right now? Is anyone going to explain  _anything_  to me?” Bull says, yelling over the loud sounds of arguing and general commotion.

Maxwell, Carver, Dalish, and Bethany fall into his team’s offices with a loud crashing  _yelp_  as Miriam and Garrett step over their siblings and into the room, looking unfairly and sadistically delighted at the pandemonium before them.

  
“Excellent, this is damn excellent stuff,  you couldn’t script this,” Miriam says, pulling one of the vacated chairs out and sitting in it, putting her boots up on Stitches’ desk as she leans back, grinning maniacally.

“Oh my poor, poor junior baby auror, her suffering is about to come to an end but what will the result be?” Garrett bemoans, pretending to faint into Grim’s vacated chair, exchanging a grin with his twin sister. “Comments? Concerns? Predictions, my dear sister?”

“I will be disappointed if wands aren’t drawn, honestly,” Miriam says.

Bull throws his hands up into the air, “ _Hello?_  Anyone? Anyone at all listening to me? I’m in the middle of a fucking mental crisis right now. I could use a little help from, apparently, the rest of the world who’s been clued into this the entire fucking time. What the actual fuck is wrong with all of you that no one would tell me this? Hello? Anyone? Anyone at all?”

“I had to hear it from  _Anders_ ,” A voice says from the doorway.

The voice is neither loud, nor soft, neither high, nor low, but perfectly level and lethal to the core.

And somehow that cuts through all the noise turning the room into the perfect example of silence.

Bull glares at all the traitors in this room as everyone slowly turns to look at Ellana Lavellan who is standing with her arms folded, looking down her nose at all of them, with Anders standing behind her looking like he’s about to fall asleep on his feet.

Maxwell  _whimpers_.

Ellana’s eyes slide down to him and it’s really impressive how she’s managing to look down at everyone at once, especially considering her height.

“Maxwell Trevelyan.”

“Please,” Maxwell squeaks out and Ellana  _smiles_. Maxwell starts to cry. It’s pitiful sounding and somehow appropriate.

“I’m telling  _Kaaras_ ,” Ellana says and Maxwell  _shrieks_.

Ellana calmly steps over him, surveying the room before she repeats, “Not a single one of you told me. I had to find out from Anders, who looks about to be dead on his feet. Somehow  _Anders_  who works in  _the hospital_  almost half a city away found out before I did and had the decency to floo over and tell me. And when I come here, what do I find? All my friends, traitors, going for the money. I’m very disappointed in all of you.”

And then Ellana looks directly at him and says, “You went to the preserve.”

“Yes,” Bull says. He’s not sure if that was supposed to be a question.

Ellana frowns hard, nods once and then says, “My family babies me, ignore it.”

And then she nods one more time, surveys the room, making eye contact with everyone present, turns around stepping over Maxwell, Dalish, and the younger Hawke twins, and leaves.

She drags a half-asleep Anders with her as she goes.

“Was that it?” Krem asks in the cavernous silence.

“She’s Ellana Lavellan,” Maxwell says from the floor, where he seems to have given up the will to live, “There is no end until she’s the only one left.”


	241. Chapter 241

“Is your bird okay?” Bull asks because Dalish hit that thing pretty hard with that spell that knocked it out of the sky.

The woman turns to the large raven and shrugs. The raven shrugs back.

Bull is getting the idea that this is not a normal raven.

“He’s fine. Don’t worry about the third eye, he’s always had that. He’s had it since he hatched. I keep telling him that birds only have the two but he doesn’t seem to believe me, the little prat.”

The three eyed raven squints its third eye at them, the pupil contracting and expanding as if to communicate something completely different than what the rest of his body is saying. It’s very, very unnerving.

“Hey, listen, uh...your name?”

“Ellana. Apprentice to Solas, Dread Wolf, Dream walker, mage of this territory. And you are?”

“I’m the Iron Bull,” Bull points at his band, “These are my Chargers. We’re a merc group. The one who hit your bird is Dalish. Can you point us out of these woods?”

“Sure. I could. I might. Where are you supposed to be going?”

“We’re going to the Exalted Plains,” Bull says, “I don’t know how we got here. We were on the King’s Highway coming from old Lothering but then we were here.”

They weren’t even taking a shortcut or anything.

“Mmm,” Ellana nods. The raven clicks his beak, third eye moving from Bull to Ellana and back again before closing. The raven shuffles on the branch he was on before spreading his wings. Ellana raises her arm and he immediately flies to her, beak quickly closing in around some of her hair and starting to preen her. “Skyhold does that. Skyhold and the King’s Highway have a precarious flirtation, you see. Yes. I can show you out, if you were on the King’s Highway. Towards the Dirth? I can do that. But you’d have to pay me. I am not allowed to do favors.”

Bull turns to Dalish who nods.

“She’s an apprentice, she isn’t allowed to do favors,” Dalish confirms. “Only full fledged magic users who’ve left their apprenticeships can do things for free. Apprentices can only do bargains and contracts. That and she’s apprenticed to the Dread Wolf. Tell me, da’len - you study the old ways of the hidden folk?”

“Yes, sister-mage,” Ellana nods, “I follow the path under the hills and through the roots and beneath the river flows.”

“Those who study the hidden paths are not allowed to do favors at all,” Dalish explains. “Their assistance must always be paid for, by word or token. It is part of their magic. No payment, no magic.”

Bull will never pretend to understand or think he understands the way magic works or the way people who use magic work.

“Alright, what’s the price for getting back to the King’s Highway?” Bull asks.

Ellana hums. The raven chitters in her ear.

“Some time,” Ellana says. “I will show you out, but it will take three days and two nights. Agreed?”

Bull, again, turns to Dalish.

“It’s a fair price,” Danish says, shrugging one shoulder. “Besides, she could be asking for more considering that I did hit her familiar.”

“Alright, three days and two nights,” Bull says. “Lead on.”

-

“I give this freely,” Bull says as Ellana angrily stomps ahead of him. “I continue to give freely.”

“And now you are bound to me for the rest of your days,” Ellana snaps. “All for some stupid quest.”

“It was the only way to get you permission to come.”

“Then I shouldn’t have come at all.”

“Evelyn needs you.” Ellana would not leave a friend in need. She could never have left Evelyn to face this quest alone. “Consider it payment for your help. You needed to ask for one anyway.”

“In gold or jewels or stories or songs,” Ellana seethes, “Not your life bound to mine.”

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,” Bull says, slowing his stride to force her to slow hers. Ellana is still walking ahead of him, but she slows down so that she’s not so far ahead of him. And then she’s walking next to him.

And then her hand weaves fingers with his own and she walks her shoulder into him so that they are side by side, touching and brushing, and Ellana’s familiar is a silent shadow above his head.

“No,” Ellana says, “I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me. I know how much you value your freedom. I know how important it is for you not to be bound to anyone, to anything. And he knew it too, and he took that.”

“It is done, and it’s nothing,” Bull says.

Ellana’s face is furious as she rounds on him, mouth open to reply but Bull shakes his head.

“To me, this isn’t a burden. This is unexpected and frustrating. I don’t understand your ways. They don’t make sense to me and I don’t understand their purpose. But this price is one that I give. It is nothing to be bound to you, Ellana. For me, at least, there is nothing restricting about this at all.”

Ellana falters, mouth closing, face softening.

“Are you sure?”

“I know myself,” Bull says. “And I know you. I wouldn’t have finished that final task if it really wasn’t something I could deal with. Quest or no quest.”

“What are you going to tell Evelyn when she asks for how you got me to come?”

“The truth. I completed a three task trial. I brought a griffon, I hatched a basilisk, and I gave cream and honey.”

“Evelyn didn’t study my school, but anyone who knows magic would know the importance of a three task. The consequences.”

“Then let them know,” Bull shrugs a shoulder, squeezing her hand. “What do I care?”

Ellana’s eyes search his and she nods solemnly.

“This I will repay. I won’t forget this.”

“You never forget anything,” Bull says. “Come on. We need to catch up to the others. They’ve gone on ahead. Can you cut the roads so we intercept them on their way to Orlais?”

“Yes.” Ellana nods, raising her hand, the ring on her pointer finger glowing a faint green as she draws the signs in the air, “Don’t let me go.”


	242. Chapter 242

“The Chief of Police and the Iron Bull have matching tattoos,” Voth repeats dumbly.

Krem nods, gesturing for Voth to pick his jaw up off the floor before Skinner and Sera decide to start using it as a target for practice. Voth fails to get the idea.

“Why? Wait - where?”

“You’ve seen the Chief shirtless,” Krem says. Bull’s tattoo is big, bold, and over his massive shoulder.

“Not the Chief of Police,” Voth repeats, lowering his voice, eyes darting around like he thinks just talking about her would summon her or something. “Why do they have matching tattoos?”

“Because they don’t like wedding rings,” Skinner answers as she walks by carrying a stack of reports to Evelyn’s office for approval. “They tried wedding rings but Lavellan lost hers down a drain within the first twenty minutes and Bull got annoyed with his.”

“So they immediately went matching tattoos?”

“It doesn’t get in the way of anything,” Krem points out. “And you can’t lose a tattoo, so it’s not like you ever take it off and forget it or anything. Practical, yeah?”

It makes sense.

“Why are you talking about their tattoos?” Skinner asks.

“Because Voth didn’t believe that Bull and the Chief of Police are married so I gave him some examples of dumb couple shit they’ve done.”

“It’s all for that visa anyway,” Skinner says, moving on.

“Visa? You can be a policeman without a citizenship?”

“Lavellan’s been Chief of Police on an expired vacation visa for years,” Krem says. “But they wanted to adopt Cole so they had to get legitimate. So among other things - financial and insurance wise - it was also so she could get citizenship.”

“Isn’t this fraud?”

Newbies. Andraste. Why is he always the one saddled with the newbies?

“Ok, you go and talk to Sutherland about this because it’s a true test to see if he understands it yet or not. I don’t have time to be explaining the Boss and Bull to everyone who joins our precinct.”

-

“I’m getting old,” Bull says as he stares down at his reading glasses.

Lavellan taps one side of them, “Shouldn’t you just get a monocle? Waste of a lens, isn’t it?”

“I’m not getting a monocle. I’ll just put plastic on the other one or something,” Bull says. “I’m getting old.”

“You’ve always been old.”

“Older than you doesn’t mean old.”

“Sure it does,” Lavellan says, poking the side of his face, “Don’t worry, I’ll still love you when you’re all creaky and cranky. Oh, wait. You already are. Old.”

Bull gives her a flat look.

Lavellan grins at him, “Do you want me to get your vitamins?”

“Yes,” Bull says, “And you’re the one who makes me take them anyway so don’t tell me that it makes me old.”

“I make you take them because you are old,” Lavellan says. “My old husband and his hot young wife.”

“You’re not that young.”

“Younger than you.”

Bull rolls his eye and puts his reading glasses on to finish checking his emails. He can hear Lavellan opening bottles of vitamins while humming along to the police scanner. Only Ellana Lavellan can find a police scanner something to hum along to.

The fact that she can hum along to it somehow offsets the fact that it’s a police scanner and he’d rather leave work stuff at work.

He hears Cole starting to get up. The kid sleeps in three to four hour increments and Bull would be more worried about it if Cole didn’t seem perfectly fine with that.

“Hey,” Bull says as Cole comes down the stairs in his pajamas, pale hair hanging over his eyes and large t-shirt hanging off his lanky frame. “Good first sleep?”

“Round one had soft dreams. Like petting a dog, but I can’t remember what the dream was. That’s good. You should let them go, they aren’t meant for you when waking, that’s why they’re dreams,” Cole murmurs, sitting on the chair closest to Bull’s desk and pulling it over, “Emails? Junk? I like your glasses. Why not a monocle? I think you’d look very nice with a monocle.”

“See! Told you!”

“I am not getting a monocle,” Bull says, “And yes, I’m checking my emails. Yes, it’s a lot of junk.”

Most of it is Krem being a shit and sending him stupid advertisements. Sometime’s there’s something actually worth looking at in there, though, so he can’t just delete all of it. He did that once and he hasn’t heard the end of it since.

“Okay,” Cole nods, turning towards the TV, turning on the sound bar and the game console, “Ellana, will you play the game with the pretty songs for me, please?”

“Let me get the old man his vitamins first,” Lavellan says.

“The Iron Bull isn’t old,” Cole says.

“Thank you.”

“He’s the same age as stars and mountains, like you and me,” Cole finishes. “We are all the same history recycled and refurbished and made new again.”

“Not helping,” Bull sighs as Lavellan laughs.

“Start the game up, Cole. How shall I play the game for you this time?” Lavellan asks, setting a new glass of water by Bull’s hand and some vitamins next to it. She takes his old glass of water and goes back to the kitchen. “Shall we play like mean people this time? Angry people? Silly people? Should we do a play through as a bunch of goofs?”

“I want it to be happy,” Cole says, carefully lifting the couch cushions to pull out a blanket from the hidden storage underneath. “Can this one be a happy play through?”

“Whatever my favorite boy commands,” Lavellan says fondly. “And for my other favorite boy, will he be mocking our choices from his desk or will he come join us on the sofa?”

“I’ll be there,” Bull says. “Why, you need someone to keep your old bones warm?”

“Being always cold isn’t a sign of being old!”

“It is when they complain about chills in their bones,” Bull says. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Don’t forget your glasses. You’ll probably need them to read the subtitles.”

“I can still hear fine. I’m not old. I’m just getting there. I’m not actually old yet.”


	243. Chapter 243

I can’t believe you want a team,” Bull says.

“Of course I want a team, why wouldn’t I want a team?” Ellana asks as she watches him tune one of the bikes that got trashed in a fight with the Blades of Hessarian a few nights back. The Blades are an alright gang when they don’t have it in their heads that a drastic purge is needed. Otherwise they mostly just pray and sit around and take care of dogs.

Bull hates it whenever someone new takes over and sends them all on some self-righteous rampage before Ellana has to knock them back down again and they start the process over.

“Because you’d have made one for yourself by now if you did,” Bull says.

“Boss,” Krem’s voice says through the intercom, “Dalish and Stitches may have accidentally set your rose garden on fire.”

“Nice, light that shit up,” Ellana says, “Oh, wait, that’s probably not the right response. I mean, that’s terrible and awful?”

“How else were we supposed to get rid of that rose infestation?” Dalish says, “Shut up, Krem, I know what I’m doing. Mind your own business and stay in your lane. You’re a security guard not a gardener.”

“You’re also not a gardener, you’re part of the same security squad.”

“I’d love a team but you didn’t let me have a team,” Ellana says as the two bicker over the intercom. “You said that the Chargers weren’t a team. I think they’re still mad at you about that, by the way.”

“It’s bad enough you’ve got me running around at night in costume, you’re not dragging the rest of them in either. Do you know how stupidly obvious that would be?” Bull says. “Imagine if the Raven’s accomplices suspiciously matched billionaire philanthropist Ellana Lavellan’s security team. It’s not that far of a leap to go straight to Ellana Lavellan is the Raven of Skyhold and Haven.”

“My name and face are all over the place and not a single person has ever linked my suspicious absences to the Raven’s fortuitous appearances,” Ellana points out.

“It’s only a matter of time if you start making it easy,” Bull says. “No, the Chargers are not going to be your superhero team. That said, I can’t believe you want that super hero team to be with the Hawke’s. Hawke’s Kirkwall team is right, it’s insane.”

“No, what’s insane is that I didn’t think of reaching out to other superheroes and vigilantes sooner,” Ellana says. “If I can’t use the obviously talented people I employ on a daily to assist me in fighting crime I could just go to other cities. Duh. How obvious.”

Bull sighs, “You’re going to join this team.”

“I’m going to join this team, I’m going to help lead it, and I’m going to kick international ass while I’m doing it.”

-

“It’s bunk that I can’t you know, officially help you,” Krem says as he adjusts his suit tie. Ellana bats his hands away and does it for him.

“You do officially help me,” Ellana says. “You’re my favorite body guard and security officer.”

“Thanks Boss. But I meant like. At your other job.”

“Then you’re right, that is bunk and you should take it up with the Iron Bull because I’m not getting into it with him again. Tonight.”

“Is that the reason why he’s not the one going with you tonight?” Krem asks.

Because when he checked the Chief was already suited up and half-way to Haven’s industrial district, and sounding pretty pissed off when Krem asked him why he wasn’t back at Skyhold and getting ready to go to tonight’s charity function.

Ellana humphs and adjusts Krem’s lapels.

“Say no more,” Krem says, “You look very nice tonight, ma’am.”

Ellana’s dressed herself up mighty fine in a velvet blue suit and silk blouse half-way unbuttoned to reveal a black cris-cross of straps on her bralette.

“Thank you,” Ellana beams. “I think Fen’Harel is going to be at tonight’s gala, or maybe one of his agents, and I want to make him mad.”

“Only you would actively piss your rogues gallery off.”

“Not only me. I think the Hawke’s thrive on pissing theirs off. It might be what fuels their super powers.”

Krem shakes his head, “An ancient undying and immortal rich genocidal cult leader runs around researching ways to end life as we know it and you just want to piss them off with your suit and color choices.”

Ellana laughs and kisses his cheek, patting his face, “It’s not fun otherwise.”

“Is that why you antagonize the chief? Because it’s fun?”

“Because he looks super cute when he pouts,” Ellana says. “Who knew a man that big and surly can look like such a puppy?”

Krem, personally, doesn’t see it, but who is he to tell Ellana Lavellan otherwise?

“Sure,” Kremlin says, “Shall we, Boss?”

“Yes, we shall,” Ellana says as Grim opens the door for them. Skinner’s already pulled the car around and she’s leaning against the passenger side door in her own suit, idly blowing a neon green piece of bubble gum. She pops it as they step out of the castle front doors, slowly clapping.

“You clean up nice, Aclassi. Who knew that there wasn’t a really confused monkey underneath all that men’s body spray?” Skinner says as she opens the car’s back door for Ellana. “Boss, nice suit. Sharp.”

“Thank you, Skinner. I like your choice of accessories.”

There is a very small enamel pin on Skinner’s lapel shaped like a bloody knife dripping a drop of blood.

“Thanks,” Skinner says as she closes the door behind Ellana, “It matches my bra.”

Krem, instantly, doesn’t want to know.

“Alright, let’s get this going,” Krem says as he shoves Skinner out of the way and towards the front of the car. He gets into the front passenger seat as Ellana and Skinner laugh. “Don’t want to be late. What would all those old, old, rich, sheltered people do without you, Boss? Party can’t start until you get there.”


	244. Chapter 244

So this is what vacation is like,” Ellana says, “I hate it.”

“Do tell,” Bull asks as Ellana wrinkles her nose out the window, staring at the spectacular view of the sprawling city of Antiva’s capitol. They can see the ornate palaces of the Merchant Princes from their hotel room.

Josephine really wanted them to have the best honeymoon ever.

Ellana just looks at him, “Do I actually need to explain this to you?”

No, she doesn’t.

They’ve been here for twenty four hours and counting and Bull started feeling twitchy by hour four.

There’s no objective here.

Bull’s slept a stupid amount of time, waking up only to Ellana going to go pee and stare broodingly out the window.

It’s not even jet lag that’s getting them because at this point both of them are pro’s at dealing with that sort of stuff.

It’s the lack of work.

Leliana’s changed their passwords to their work accounts so they can’t even get in there.

“How do people do this regularly?” Ellana asks, baffled as she puts her hands on her hips, glaring out into the distance.

“Typically there’s a lot of sex.”

“Not honeymoons, vacations.”

“No, I meant that, too.”

“Well not everyone can spend their vacations having sex,” Ellana throws her arm up in annoyance. “Sight seeing, probably. Eating? Sleeping? What else are you supposed to do?”

“Relax.”

“Okay, but how?”

“Fuck if I know,” Bull shrugs, flipping aimlessly through TV channels. All of it unfamiliar in that they’re shows he doesn’t know and also because he’s not used to daytime television.

“I’m not even hungry so why should I go eat?” Ella a stomps her foot and gestures out at the city, “I’ve been a guest at the royal palaces. What else am I supposed to do here?”

“There’s the library.”

“I didn’t come to Antiva to read.”

“Market?”

“Do you know how many Antivan dignitaries and businessmen send me gifts? Wait, yes, you do. You do security checks on my mail.”

Ellana falls silent, crossing her arms as she continues to glare out the window.

Bull keeps the TV on a channel that might be about cooking, might be a daytime talk show, or maybe it’s a contest. He can’t tell, there’s too much going on at once with zero context.

“I am having an idea,” Ellana says.

“Share with the class.”

“I smuggled in case files,” Ellana says.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Bull turns the TV off and stands up to go back to their room and dig through her suitcases. “I’ve been doing Ben-Hassrath mental exercises to keep myself like cracking like an egg and you had that here this entire damn time.The fuck? Get me a divorce.”

“Mean,” Ellana sniffs, “And you seemed to be holding up better than me, anyway.”

“Where are they?” Bull asks.

“Carry on, in between the lining,” Ellana says. “I think it might’ve been a special gift from Leliana that she didn’t check there.”

“Thank fuck,” Bull says, quickly loosening and undoing the seams on Ellana’s luggage lining with the keys to their rental car. “Cold cases?”

“A sampling of everything,” Ellana says.

He can already hear her rearranging furniture in the main room of the hotel penthouse.

“I’m calling for room service,” Ellana says.

“Excellent, I’ll start setting up the files. Ask them for some string. We’ll tag it ourselves.”

“We should probably get souvenirs so that the others don’t get suspicious.”

“We’ll work on that later, after I get my brain somewhere back to normal.”

-

“How long do you think they’ll last?” Cullen asks as he and Rylen unload the truck with Lavellan and Bull’s luggage. There’s more than one, which is a surprise considering the two, but also taking into account that Josephine planned their honeymoon, not so much. She probably bought everything in the suitcases, plus the suitcases, and had it packed for them.

He wonders if the two fully understand just how much Josephine saved them from themselves on this one.

Most likely not. As always Josephine does a thankless job with grace.

“That’s unlucky to talk about right after a wedding,” Rylen says. “Honestly, Rutherford. I know you’re country but that’s just insensitive.”

“No, I mean, before they crack on their honeymoon and start causing trouble,” Cullen explains, shaking his head. “We all know they’ll last forever. It’s just that they aren’t built for...normal relaxation.”

“Point. I’d wager it at two days.”

“You’re giving them too much credit,” Leliana says coming up from the other car, slinging an arm around Rylen’s shoulder and waving a fifty note. “I’m thinking they’re going to crack on the plane. Bets in?”

“I’ll keep, I don’t want to wager against any of you,” Cullen says, taking Leliana’s note.

“Good, you’re fair and have a head for remembering things people say,” Leliana says. “I’ll tell the others we’ve got one starting.”

“Somehow this all seems very mean-spirited,” Ryle says, pulling his wallet out and taking out two twenty notes and two fivers, “But I’m in.”

“We need something to do now that the wedding planning and accompanying chaos is over,” Cullen muses, taking Rylen’s notes and folding them carefully around Leliana’s, “Since the newly wedded couple is going away for a month. What would we do for entertainment?”

“Go back to mocking you about your fan club?”

“Anything but,” Cullen says. “Mercy.”

There’s a whole line of Inquisition cars at the loading and unloading dock at the airport and they’re beginning to attract some looks.

Cullen raps his knuckles on the closed car door and signals for the cars to move out. They’ll circle the area until it’s time for the rest of them to leave.

Ellana and Dorian and Sera are all firmly entangled in each other in hug that could also be a choke hold.

It could go either way, really.

“Pass it down the line, I guess,” Cullen says, putting the notes in the inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Should we make this open to the Inquisition as a whole?”

“Well we all need our fun,” Rylen shrugs. “Best get a case for all the cash you’ll be getting.”

“Might need a vault, or a truck, honestly. These two are going to make someone very rich.”


	245. Chapter 245

Mahanon Lavellan is gripping a pair of scissors like a man about to go to war. Considering that Blackwall has just walked into his salon to get his hair cut and beard groomed, Bull doesn’t blame him.

Ellana is currently filing her nails at the reception desk Bull is leaning on, looking just as amused as Bull feels but wont let himself show because he’s never been Mahanon’s favorite person. Lucky, he’s not Mahanon’s least favorite person, but Bull isn’t about to win himself that place by looking delighted by the current situation.

“He didn’t know, did he?” Bull asks, reaching over the high counter to steal Ellana’s coffee and take a sip of it.

“Nope, I booked him,” Ellana says, “For Mahanon’s time slot. I still get the commission fee.”

“Nice,” Bull muses, “Is your brother just about to hack Blackwall’s entire face off?”

“Possibly,” Ellana blows and pops a bright blue bubble. “But if he does he’s cleaning that up. I think Blackwall wants to look nice since Josephine is coming to visit.”

“Cool,” Bull says, “As in stay at the resort or just drop by for a spot check?”

“Both? I don’t know. I’m doing her hair and nails at two thirty, though,” Ellana says. “And there’s nothing to spot check here. I’m flawless in every way.”

“Sure,” Bull eyes her for a moment because personal bias aside — “You’ve got cake frosting on the side of your mouth.”

Ellana’s tongue is a quick triangle of pink that prods the side of her mouth before disappearing back between her lips which curl back into a grin.

“That’s on purpose. I was testing you.”

“Mhm.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Ellana asks.

“Sure, I’m guarding your very prestigious salon from weirdos who want to come in but were denied access because of your ridiculous wait times. What if one of them wants vengeance? Comes at you with a pair of rusty scissors and crazy hair and a beard like Blackwalls?”

“Stop, you’ll frighten the children.”

“What children?”

“The kittens my brother is about to have as he tries to sort out Blackwall’s Blackwall.”

Bull turns and sees that Mahanon has just started combing Blackwall’s hair to get somewhere to start, but the comb is stuck. Mahanon looks livid.

“Have you considered starting from scratch?” Mahanon asks, voice giving away how hard he’s trying just to stay civil. “With your head shape you might look tolerable and not like a serial killer if you go bald. Sometimes people look better that way. The Iron Bull pulls it off.”

“The Iron Bull makes an effort more than once a year,” Ellana says, “Don’t try and be like my man here, he works very hard to maintain this level of wonderful.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“You’re welcome, bro.”

Bull and Ellana fist bump.

“I’m actually here as Blackwall’s moral support.” Bull takes another sip of Ellana’s coffee before returning it to her. “As one guy with a beard to another.”

Ellana mimes scissors with one hand, “You in for a trim? The chair next to him is open and Mahanon could use someone to relax on.”

“I don’t think your brother is going to be relaxing by trimming my beard so much as he’ll be venting,” Bull replies. They both turn to see that Mahanon’s face has set into something similar to what one would expect from someone about to walk to an execution via firing squad, or perhaps death by hanging.

“Maybe,” Mahanon says quietly, “Montilyet has some sort of very particular weakness to you looking like this that no one knows about. You, specifically. No one else.”

“Do you want to get some shakes?” Ellana asks.

“Sure,” Bull replies.

Neither of them move, because both of them actually kind of want to watch this train wreck in motion.

But there are also some things that should be done behind closed doors to save people’s dignity. This might be one of them.

Still.

The entertainment value is through the roof.

-

“Have you ever actually stayed at the resort as a guest?” Maxwell asks Ellana as she buffs his nails. “I want to someday. Except I don’t think Vivienne would let me in through the door if I’m not in my uniform.”

“Of course I’ve stayed here as a guest,” Ellana says, “Wait, that Vivienne knows about? As in - like, I’ve paid for it and everything?”

“What do you think I mean by guest?”

Ellana hums, “Sometimes Mahanon and I sneak into vacant rooms to crash if we’re too lazy go to back to the employee housing.”

“It is literally across the street,” Maxwell says, staring at her bowed head, “We have a little go-cart to drive us back and forth if we’re very lazy. You have the Iron Bull to carry you, which I’m pretty sure is possibly his job or like - part of his official duties.”

“That’s silly, I’d just use a spare room here,” Ellana says. “I mean, everyone does it.”

“Define everyone for me.”

“Me and my brother, half the Chargers, Sera, Cole, Herah...”

“Ah, I see,” Maxwell says, “The brave and socially uncaring squad.”

“The what now?”

“Ignore me. Tell me more about how Vivienne hasn’t caught you and what it’s like to be a guest and receive our resort’s services. It’d be very surreal to me, I think.”

“I want you to know that Mahanon and I have jumped on the beds here and it’s fun, it’s great, it’s stress relieving and very bouncy,” Ellana replies immediately. “Also, your concierge staff? Excellent training, Maxwell. Good on you. Somehow we haven’t ever got you, though. Weird. Do you even work?”

“Of course I work. Vivienne wouldn’t pay me otherwise.”

“She could just be paying you to look pretty. It’s basically what Cullen and Herah are here for. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Herah at her post. And sometimes Cullen just has to do one of those awkward smiles and people will walk into the glass walls straight off the street for another taste. He doesn’t even mean anything other than being polite.”

“That’s probably why Vivienne moved him closer to the inside of the resort,” Maxwell muses. “Too many liabilities.”

“Bull and I have also tested the black out curtains,” Ellana says. “We need to get some of those into employee housing.”

“Wait, when I can’t find the two of you during your off shirts is that where you are? In guest rooms sleeping?”

“Or having movie marathons in the dark. We need complete darkness for that. Especially the shitty b-rated horror ones. It adds to the atmosphere.”


	246. Chapter 246

“I’m almost entirely certain that she did not have legs when I first met her,” Bull confesses under his breath as Evelyn runs a hand through her hair. “In fact, I’m willing to bet my other eye that she had a fish tail. She’s a mermaid.”

“And why is your mermaid now a two-legged person? And how did she find you?”

“She isn’t telling, Boss,” Bull says. “But she did help me to, you know, not die after the skirmish out on the coast put a hole in our ship in the middle of stormy waters. We lost a lot of people we weren’t counting on losing, and I’m damn grateful that I’m not one of them right now.”

“But how did she find you? If she found you what’s to say that the Red Templars can’t track us? Won’t come for us?”

“We’ve got flags and guards everywhere, I don’t think finding us it the problem, just the defending our camps part,” Bull points out. “And not to be overly suspicious, but to be overly fucking suspicious, are you seriously going to turn away the only bit of good luck we’ve had in the past month?”

“Fine,” Evelyn flicks her wrist, “Handle this. I don’t - I don’t have the time for this, Bull. Handle her. Do what you think is best. I trust that you’ve got this. Just let me know if there’s anything that comes up. I know you can handle this.”

“You got it, Inquisitor,” Bull says, “Hey. You’re okay.”

“Thank you.” Evelyn’s smile is weak but present as she leans on a table covered in maps and supply line information and geological surveys, weighed down with rocks against the ocean wind. “You’re okay too. We’re both alright.”

If you say it enough times, eventually you’ll believe it.

They’re going to be okay.

Bull leaves her in the dark shadows of the command tent and finds the former mermaid sitting on some supply crates, looking around with undisguised awe and wonder.

“Hi,” Bull says and her eyes immediately go to him, focused with an unnerving intensity that Bull almost had forgotten. “Let’s get you sorted.”

He holds out his hand, a strange reversal of that night so many weeks ago.

The mermaid’s teeth are no less sharper on land than they were in the ink-black of the frothing ocean. Or less white.

Her hand is cold in his.

-

“What’s it like down there?” Sera asks the mermaid, called Lavellan according to Bull.

“Clear,” Lavellan replies, voice low and rasping. It makes Sera think of wading in murky water. And something in that water brushes against your bare foot, your ankle, or your calf - maybe it’s some weed or a fish, maybe it’s just the water itself or your imagination. But something feels like it’s brushed past you and you slip, suddenly lurching and there’s a second of blind-awful panic where you think fuck.

But you’re okay. Your foot is on something solid, still. You’re fine.

But your heart continues to race.

“Clear?” Sera repeats, “What’s that mean?”

“Clear,” Lavellan repeats slowly, “Things are clear in the sea. Here, on land, you say things that you do not mean and you think things you do not say and you do things you do not mean to do and you mean to do things that you do not. Here there is hiding. Here there are lies.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t lie.”

“Your lies are ugly and crude and cumbersome,” Lavellan says. “The lies here sink in the air, like weights. Lies should be like algae and sleeping fish and kelp beds. Floating, moving with the currents, flexible and fixed, neither going away or falling apart. Lies should not be what they are in the mouths of the people who are of the dry land. These lies are new to me, unfamiliar. They are not what they should be.”

Sera hasn’t got a damned clue what that’s supposed to mean.

“What else?” Sera asks, putting that mess aside for later. She can pick it apart when she’s alone or doing something else and needs busywork to go with her hands.

“Air tastes different,” Lavellan says, frowning down at her own hands as she tries to imitate Sera’s motions with the knife as they fletch arrows. Lavellan’s managed to get one or two decent ones, the rest...not so much decency there. “Trees are strange. They don’t move. Soil is heavy. Everything seems heavier.”

“Why did you come here if everything is so much worse, then?”

“I did not say worse,” Lavellan frowns. “And even if it was worse, I would still come.”

“Why?”

That’s the million sovereign question, isn’t it? The one that everyone’s been trying to figure out how to ask but hasn’t really gotten around to asking. The one that the Iron Bull puzzles over every time Lavellan falls into step next to him without word or second glance.

“Because I will not leave him to the fate that the wind gave him,” Lavellan replies. “There is a greater thing waiting to descend upon your shores. I refuse to turn my back to it and leave others to face it, unaware and unprepared.”

How noble.

“You don’t even know us,” Sera says. “But you’re helping. That’s good. That’s what good people do. I don’t know how to thank you for being good people when it’s so easy to be not good people.”

“There is no thanks needed for doing what is right,” Lavellan says.

“You aren’t even from here and you came over to help,” Sera points out. “That’s beyond what’s right, I think.”

The shit that the Inquisition is currently dealing with doesn’t touch upon anything that lives in the ocean, that Sera knows of.

Andraste’s tits, mermaids weren’t even a thing outside of old stories until Lavellan came walking out of the water looking all eerie with her gills and her eyes and her teeth and her hands and fins.

“The land and the sea are sisters,” Lavellan says, “And who am I to let the sons and daughters of my mother’s sister to suffer?”


	247. Chapter 247

“I regret our choices,” Bull says as he stands in the hallway between his room and Ellana’s. “Why did we only book three rooms?”

“Because I’m having a girl’s night with our girls,” Ellana replies, leaning against the wall between the open doors to their hotel rooms. Ellana throws a quick glance inside the room Bull’s staying in, “Boys. Be quiet, I’m talking to dad now.”

“Yes, mom,” All of the little shits say. As if he hadn’t been trying to get them to calm down and focus for the past thirty minutes on something that isn’t the hotel pool or rooftop lounge. Immediate silence and respect from them with two words from Ellana.

As though he didn’t raise these brats.

Bull pushes off the doorframe and goes to take a look at what’s going on in Ellana’s room and sees that the girls have already unpacked their belongings and are, like good and well behaved children, looking out the window and quietly discussing something that’s probably not fart bubbles.

“Cole, you good?” Bull asks because Cole is sitting on the foot of Ellana’s bed and is looking around the room with a look of baffled wonder on his face.

Cole, Rocky and Stitches are in a room of their own because Ellana and Bull trust the two to help Cole and keep their own shit together like semi-responsible people. Meanwhile Bull’s stuck with Krem, Mahanon, and Grim being horrors.

“Yes,” Cole says after a few minutes of staring at the bedspread, a small smile faintly visible on his face, “This is nice. I like this. I’m very happy.”

“Good,” Bull says, and takes a glance back into his room and sees that Ellana’s gotten the boys to start unpacking and to calm down.

“How come they listen to you?”

“Because they know you’re soft and they’ll get away with anything. I’m a lawyer and they’d rather not risk it,” Ellana replies, ruffling Grim’s hair as she comes out of the room. “How was the flight? I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“I hate flying,” Bull replies immediately. “Planes aren't made for people of my size and it shows. My back hates me. My legs are fucked up. My everything sucks.”

“I told you that we could have used my aunt’s private jet. At this specific point in time she likes me again,” Ellana says. “But no, you said you didn’t want the kids to get spoiled.”

“Your aunt tried to send Skinner a pony for her birthday, I’m not having this. No kid of mine is going to be a blue-blood,” Bull says. “Do you know what happens to blue-bloods?”

“They marry down?”

“Exactly. My girl is going to marry up if she chooses to ever get married,” Bull says. “Only the best for my kids.”

Ellana rolls her eyes.

“How was your flight?” Bull asks, “You took a direct, right?

“Yes, on _Dorian’s_ private jet,” Ellana replies. “We had champagne and strawberries mid-flight, and watched a broadcast of some of the latest plays to hit the Orlais performing circuit.”

“Posh shits.”

“You go take a lie down, stretch your back, work on your knees. I’ll call the front desk for some warm presses,” Ellana says, rubbing his arm. “I’ll take care of the kids. We’ll take a walk and see what’s around, buy some bottled water and anything else we’ve forgotten. I bet they’re all incredibly hyper after that flight, too.”

“That’d be great. But you sure you’ll be okay with all of them?”

“I think some of them will stay behind,” Ellana says. “Stitches is looking a tad droopy. Stitches, baby, are you going to stay here?”

Rocky sticks his head out of the room he’s sharing with Stitches and Cole, “He’s too weak to say anything, so yeah. He’s staying here.”

“There, you and Stitches can stay here and I’ll handle the rest. I think Evelyn wanted to go out, also. It’s like a field trip!”

-

“It’s like my birthday and Saturnalia and my adoption day anniversary are all happening at once,” Dalish says, breathless as she walks into the boutique, eyes going round and face flushing as she takes in the several displays. “Good things _do_ happen to good people!”

“Your daughter?” The sales woman asks, smiling fondly as Dalish does a slow turn to fully take in all of the wedding dresses and various accessories in all their glory.

“Yes,” Ellana says, lowering her voice to whisper at the woman, “I know that we had already agreed on a few dresses but can she pick out some for me to try on? She’s really invested in this wedding and I want this to be as magical for her as possible.”

“It’s normally the other way around, but of course,” The saleswoman laughs. “What’s her name?”

“Dalish.”

“Only child?”

“You won’t believe this, but one of seven,” Ellana says. “Her dad’s a sucker for sad kids and he adopted a whole brood.”

“Mom!”

Both women turn towards the blonde girl who’s stopped in front of a huge monstrosity of a dress covered in rhinestones, fake flowers, and lace.

Dalish turns to them, eyes huge on her face, “You gotta.”

“Well. You heard her,” Ellana muses, “I _gotta_.”

She shares a look with the saleswoman who smiles, lowering her eyes for a moment before turning to Dalish and says, “Dalish, shall we take this dress aside for your mom to try on? Would you like for me to show you our selection of veils?”

“Yes!” Dalish’s voice jumps up two whole octaves and she looks like she’s about to pass out.

Ellana had consulted with the saleswoman here about a week ago and finalized things down to about four dresses, but she thought that it would be quite nice if Dalish got involved considering that Dalish seems to have taken Ellana’s engagement to the Iron Bull as a personal gift from the gods.

Ellana a is very grateful that Aunt Mythal is bankrolling the dress and stuff as a wedding present because otherwise Ellana wouldn’t even think about coming to a place this fancy.

She’d have been happy getting married in the pearls Solas gave her when she passed the bar, the sundress the boys got her for her birthday a couple of years ago, and the bracelet Skinner and Dalish saved up to buy her for Saturnalia earlier this year.

Apparently this is a high offense to Mythal - “No niece of mine is going to get married in squalor” - who’s decided to fund as much of this wedding as she can figure out a way to sneak her money into.

 

 


	248. Chapter 248

“I kissed you under the stars as the world was ending, did you think I would forget?” Ellana says, soft as sleep as her fingers slide over the back of the Iron Bull’s neck.

“You forgot what happened after,” Bull says. “You told me to leave.”

And like a good mindless soldier who’s used to taking orders, he left.

But he thinks that, for the both of them, they had thought she would come back to find him later. That they would meet, after the battle, or maybe they would find each other’s bodies fallen somewhere and that would be that.

If Bull had known that in that final battle he would lose her forever, that she would be lost to him forever, and that the last time he saw her would be after a shared breath, a quick press of hot and chapped lips, and a frantic eyed “go”, he would have planted his feet and pulled her behind him and said “no”. And they would have gone together.

If he had known that the last time he saw her would be then, he would have never turned his back on her.

And he thinks that maybe if she had known too, she would not have told him to leave.

No. She would have.

It would have been different though. It would not have been the same.

Bull breathes in slow and breathes out, his lungs crackling - cracking, actually. It’s gotten to his lungs by now. It’s been over a year, it must have gotten to his lungs at least.

The red lyrium moves slow through him. Maybe it’s because he’s Qunari and that has something to do with it. Maybe the Qunari before the Qun really did mix something extra into their blood after all.

This Ellana, if he’s being optimistic, is some sort of weird comfort his brain is trying to give him before he dies. If he’s being realistic, it’s a side-effect of being turned into lyrium.

Either way, he didn’t think his death would be so fucking poignant.

“I’m sorry,” Ellana says, fingertips brushing gently against his throat, running underneath his chin and guiding his face to hers, “I am sorry that we meet again like this.”

“Is this where we say goodbye?” Bull asks.

He’s fairly certain that he does not go to the same place Ellana does. Regardless of their beliefs, he’s pretty sure that in any religion they aren't judged worthy of being in the same place.

“It is where I wish you well,” Ellana says, “It is where I tell you dareth shiral. It is where I take you away from this pain and I bring you somewhere new, and we start again. It is where I tell you that I am sorry that I failed you. I’m sorry that I didn’t make it out of the Fade, I’m sorry that I didn’t come back to you all. I am sorry that so many people died because of me, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t save any of you. I’m sorry that I am not saving you at this very moment, but bringing the moment to a close. This is a life that should not have been lived.”

“Is the alternative a life where I don’t meet you?” Bull asks. He immediately knows with a clarity he hasn’t had in years - since Adamant - that a life where he does not meet Ellana Lavellan is not one he wants to have.

“The alternative is a life where if we die, we do it together,” Ellana says.

She takes his hand and pulls him from the lyrium. Or perhaps she pulls him from his body. It would not be his first out of body experience due to red lyrium’s many, may, many side-affects.

“Don’t look back, it isn’t you anymore,” Ellana says just as he’s about to turn to observe himself outside of himself. Her hand squeezes his softly, running her smooth thumb over his knuckles. “Come, and let us dive once more into the abyss.”

-

“I don’t know how the two of you ever became tour guides,” Herah says as she watches Ellana blatantly bullshit her way through an explanation of what caused a weird stain on the castle walls. The weird stain was caused by Sera, Malika, and Kaaras after a round of drinks and a severe mis-use of Skyhold’s ancient armory which really shouldn’t have happened because these are cultural artifacts.

Herah can’t believe Ellana gets away with such bold-faced lies and gets paid for it.

Of course, Ellana and Mahanon don’t always lie about things. In fact, the two of them are very, very knowledgeable about Skyhold and its history, as well as the many artifacts that have been gathered in the castle’s museum and archives over the past several centuries. They could tell you about anything in this castle down to the composition of every single brick.

But when the tourists start in on the strange questions the two get creative and it’s always spectacular to watch.

“I don’t know how you got to be our supervisor considering that you don’t know the history behind the water lines on the inner courtyard moat, but here we are,” Mahanon replies.

“It’s not about knowing everything there is to know. It’s about the fact that you and Ellana are terrifying and manipulative and just the wrong side of crazy that gets you put on some sort of TV special about the weirdo’s next door,” Herah replies. “Just because you easily fool everyone else doesn’t mean you fool Solas. He’s not putting either of you in charge of all customer relations because he doesn’t want us to get sued for emotional damages.”

“Rude, insensitive, practical,” Mahanon says, filing his nails, “I approve and agree. Your thoughts, the Iron Bull?”

Bull, who’s been lying down on what Herah is pretty sure is a fainting couch older than all current employees on the premises combined, grunts, “No comment.”

“He’s just saying that because he doesn’t want to get on your bad side,” Herah says. “Since he wants to date your sister without you, you know, murdering him.”

“I wouldn’t murder him if they started dating,” Mahanon says.

“You’d force him to memorize your encyclopedic knowledge of this castle and the surrounding mountain range. That’s as close to murder as you can get without shedding blood,” Herah corrects. “I, personally, wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.”

Mahanon scowls, And looks ready to get into it about the rich cultural heritage of Skyhold when their radios crackle to life and Maxwell’s cheery I’m-up-to-here-with-bullshit voice comes across and says, “I’ve got a vomiter on the walls. Some help?”


	249. Chapter 249

Lanval crows unhappily from where Ellana has him stuffed in a cage on the back of a wagon.

“Out,” He caws.

“No,” Ellana points five fingers at him, the monkey paw needs airing out anyway, “You aren’t going anywhere until I know for certain we’re out of the woods and the Iron Bull and Solas don’t haul us back for this stupid formality of completing tasks. I’m my own person, my own mage. I don’t need permission. How archaic is that? Just because I’m an apprentice doesn’t mean that I have to be, like, shackled to Solas’ side for every waking hour of the day looking to him for permission and judgement and advice and stuff.”

Lanval covers one side of his head with a wing and shakes his head, “Stupid.”

“Yes, I know it’s stupid. That’s why I’m running away on the back of a merchan’ts caravan,” Ellana says, quickly turning back towards the front of the wagon and recasting the invisibility and silencing illusions she had put up earlier. The man continues to whistle to himself quite happily, unaware of his stowaways.

“No, you stupid,” Lanval’s talons click on the wooden bars of the cage as he half-heartedly pecks at a bit of string that dangles between the wooden slats. “Out.”

“How am I the stupid one here?” Ellana asks.

“Because you got caught in an enchantment,” Solas’ voice says from next to her.

Ellana shrieks.

Lanval grumbles and Fen appears out of the shadows around the cage, dark head resting on top fo the wood and blinking his seven eyes at her. He yawns, deeply unimpressed.

Solas is sitting with one leg crossed over the other, long fingers folded together over his knee.  
The wagon, along with the whistling merchant, fades away into some logs and bramble next to a bit of bog. A frog, sitting on a rock where the merchant had approximately been sitting, croaks and hops away, diving into the water with a loud plop!

Ellana swears and tries to run.

Solas doesn’t even cast a spell. Skyhold grabs her by the back of her neck with some vines and wraps her up, lifting her feet off the ground and suspending her between some branches. She’s slowly turned around towards Solas, put back no her feet, and given a firm but gentle nudge forward.

Solas is sitting on an armchair she recognizes from the blue and white sitting room on Skyhold’s east facing second floor. It overlooks a rose garden and maze that for whatever reason deeply enjoys arranging itself into rudimentary pictures instead of an actual maze.

Solas taps his fingers on his knee and gives her a somewhat disappointed glance.

“You don’t listen to me, you don’t listen to Skyhold and what old magic tells you, and you don’t listen to your familiar. Tell me, is there really any point at all?”

Ellana scowls and turns around to let Lanval out of the cage.

Lanval shuffles out, shaking out his feathers and nipping at her fingers before flying up to perch in the tree branches.

“I’ll listen when all of you stop being nonsensical,” Ellana says. “You shouldn’t be telling me not to go on quests, Skyhold should know better than to try and keep me here, and Lanval should support me instead of you because you aren’t the one who summoned him into existence. Traitor.”

Lanval doesn’t respond.

Jaws gently close around Ellana’s hand and she looks down to see that Fen has taken her fingers in his teeth and is gently trying to pull her towards Skyhold, who’s towers have rippled into existence just within viewing over and through the trees.

“The Iron Bull told me you’d do something like this and gave me some helpful hints on how to find you,” Solas says, “You realize that this is law, do you not?”

“It’s a stupid law,” Ellana scuffs her boot as Fen leads her away.

“Many laws are stupid but you must obey them, none-the-less,” Solas replies, “I will see you back at Skyhold. I trust that this will not be happening again?”

“No,” Ellana mumbles, taking her hand from Fen’s mouth and putting it on the back of his neck, giving the wolf familiar a rough scratch behind the ears causing his tail to wag happily. It’s not Fen’s fault. “But I will find a way to join this quest.”

-

“You’ve mad her mad,” Maxwell says as he helps Bull load up the caravan with supplies. Herah and half of their party have already gone ahead to secure more supplies as well as lodgings in Redcliffe. Hopefully they can make it there within the week. “What did you do to make her mad? You know things go odd when she’s mad. It’s not her fault, bless her, but it’s part of her magic. Roads turn strange and travelers get cursed. Are you aware that we will be on a road and that we are, for the foreseeable future, a group of travelers?”

“I got her here, that’s why she’s mad,” Bull says. “She’s mostly over it. We talked it out on the way here.”

“Have you considered talking it out some more?” Maxwell says, “Perhaps, even, groveling about it?”

“You don’t even know what she’s mad about and you assume I’m the one in the wrong? That’s cold, Trevelyan.”

“Are you the one in the wrong?”

“It’s complicated.”

“So is traveling on a road when you have a mage who studied the magic of the spirits and the other-kin and hidden ways. I don’t want to walk in a circle for seven days and seven nights that turns out to be seven hundred years, Bull. I know this quest is meant to be long, but I sincerely hope it isn’t that long.”

Maxwell does have a point.

“I’m not in the wrong and we did talk it over, she’s just...sore about it,” Bull say slowly. “She’ll come around. Trust. Me.”

“Sure,” Maxwell sounds skeptical though as he tosses his shield on top of their provisions. “If you say so. But do know that every time it looks like we might even be a little bit lost I will be looking at your direction both accusingly and pointedly.”

“Accepted, get up front and drive the wagon. I need to nap.”


	250. Chapter 250

“Hey,” Bull says, nudging Ellana with his elbow. The woman curls up, burying her face in her pillow and grumbling in her sleep about squeaky toys. A small part of Bull’s brain wonders what she’s thinking about squeaky toys for because all of their kids are out of that stage where squeaky toys are acceptable. If he tried giving Krem or Mahanon a squeaky toy they’d throw it back into his face along with a soccer ball or a baseball for good measure. “Hey.”

Ellana’s next noise is one that’s slightly more awake but also confused, “Mmrghf?”

“You’re my wife now. Legally. We’re hitched,” Bull says.

“Yeah,” Ellana says, muffled into a pillow, “And no one made either of us sign prenups.”

“Your kid is my kid now,” Bull says. “I have seven kids.”

“He’s been your kid for years,” Ellana yawns, uncurling to sprawl across the bed as much as she can like a starfish. Her leg and arm bump against him, but that’s a momentary obstacle because she immediately flings her limbs on top of him. They’re freezing and Bull almost throws her off. “Besides, if we’re measuring I’m the one who’s gotten a more impressive deal. You got one more kid. That’s like, fifteen percent increase or something. I got six more kids. That’s six hundred percent. Something. Math. It’s early, why are you making me do math this early?”

“Because you’re my wife now, legally, and that’s crazy,” Bull says. He never thought he’d get married. Then again, he never thought he’d have this many kids.

He’s domestic as shit.

“You know what’s really crazy?” A voice says from Bull’s other side. “That you brought all seven of those kids on your honeymoon and you didn’t book more than two rooms. We’re too old to be sleeping with our parents.”

Bull finds Krem’s head and gives him a rough pat, ruffling his hair hard.

“Go to sleep, brat.”

Mahanon, on Ellana’s side makes sleepy mumbles like his mom and Ellana grunts as Mahanon wiggles over her and wedges himself between her and Bull. Mahanon’s everything is freezing and Bull’s skin prickles even underneath his pajamas.

“There is something wrong with you two,” Bull says, “How are you this cold and still alive?’

Mahanon and Ellana curl up around each other and reach for Bull at the same time. Like leeches.

Bull doesn’t hesitate to roll, tucking Krem against his chest and quickly putting his second youngest boy between himself and the living ice pillars that are his youngest and his wife.

Krem comes awake with a loud yelp and there’s a few kicks thrown but Mahanon and Ellana always get their way. Krem is absorbed into their icy limbs with whining protests and Bull is saved from shivering.

“Dad,” Krem whispers, betrayed, “I thought you loved me.”

“Suffering builds character,” Bull says, yawning. “Night.”

-

“So, we’re officially brothers and sisters. I mean, we’ve been like that for a while, but now it’s official,” Rocky says, swinging Mahanon up onto his shoulders. Mahanon wraps his arms around Rocky’s head and raises his binoculars to look towards the mountains.

Mom and Dad’ve chosen to have their honeymoon in the middle of the woods at the foot of the Frostbacks.

Rocky’s not sure if it’s because they’re weird or really, really simple. Dalish says its romantic that they want to take all their kids with them. Skinner thinks that they’re crazy and she wishes that they left them at home. This is, Rocky thinks, because their grand-aunt Andruil had offered to take care of them while Mom and Dad were away and she had also promised to teach Dalish to do tricks on the back of a horse.

There are horses here, too, but you can’t do tricks on their back.

“So you know, I can officially say that if anyone messes with you, we’ll mess with them back,” Rocky says. “I mean, it went unspoken before but now I can say it on the books. You’re one of ours now.”

“Cool,” Mahanon says, and then passes Rocky the binoculars, “There are deer on your four.”

Rocky takes the binoculars and goes to look at the deer.

“As your official, legal, on the books brother,” Mahanon says, “I feel obligated to tell you that I overheard Mom and Dad talking about singing you up for summer camp for gifted and talented teens. It sounds boring. It’s on a country retreat.”

Rocky grimaces, “Ugh. Why would they think I’d be interested in that?”

“I don’t know. But maybe you should start working on alternate plans before they do something. More than talk.”

-

“Out of curiosity is any part of this wedding being decided by the actual bride and groom, or just their children?” Sylaise asks as she and Solas wait for Ghilan’nain to come back out from the kitchen with lemonade. Solas’ knitting needles click softly in the afternoon stillness. Sylaise is working on crocheting a nice table runner to give Ellana as a wedding gift. She’s already made ten place mats - one extra, one never knows - some seat covers, pot holders, and doilies.

As near as she can tell, Solas is working on knitting all of his grandchildren brand new sweaters.

“I’m not involved in this,” Solas says, “Except to fund it. But if I did actually know anything I would say that it’s mostly being run by the children with gentle suggestion from their parents to keep them on track. I suppose it’s more the illusion of choice in that the parents already know what they’re going to be doing, mostly, and the children get to go through the motions and make relatively minor decisions. I believe Stitches and Grim are in charge of picking the wedding cake. They’re going to a sampling this Friday after the two get out of school.”

Sylaise is still a little bit hurt that they didn’t ask her to cater.

“I’m glad that they’re holding an official ceremony,” Sylaise says. “I know that they’ve been married in spirit for years, but I do like that they’re making it legal. It’s so much safer.”

“I think you just like knowing that you’ve officially acquired a technical support person and that your husband now has free labor,” Solas pauses. “And also that you don’t have to worry about him breaking her heart because if there’s a divorce one of us would ruin him completely.”

Sylaise hums. “Well. I wasn’t going to be so crass as to say it out loud. But yes.”


	251. Chapter 251

“I want to go to an aquarium,” Mahanon declares.

He is currently going through a stage where he’s obsessed with anything that swims.

“No, I want to go horseback riding,” Skinner says.

She is currently in a stage where she’s fascinated by horses.

“No! We need to go to a resort! A fancy resort with see through curtains and palm trees,” Dalish says, glaring at both of her siblings, as though it would cow them into conceding to her.

Dalish has entered a stage where she wants to live her dream wedding through her parents. It is somewhat stressful.

“Sounds boring, what would Mom and Dad even do at a resort?” Krem looks baffled as he chews on some sugar cane that Uncle Jun sent them from his farm. “They’d probably just walk around looking lost and stuff. I’ve never seen Dad go into the water at a beach.”

“I don’t think Mom’s ever set foot on a beach,” Mahanon says, “I’ve gone with Grandfather but Mom dropped us off and drove to a mall. She doesn’t like sand.”

“Why?” Stitches asks.

“Something about nature’s graveyard. Apparently it’s a really decisive topic in the family. Half of them agree about it being a grave and the rest of them think it’s a nice place to think and relax.”

“Weird, but she’s right, it is nature’s graveyard. But there’s no reason why you can’t relax there,” Rocky says. “Just consider yourself a scavenger at said graveyard.”

“We should go on a nature hike,” Stitches says.

“No, an aquarium,” Mahanon insists. “A water park.”

“Do the bride and groom get any say in this?” Bull asks.

“No,” Every single child says, except for Grim who signs absolutely not! with emphasis.

“I love my bossy children,” Ellana says, opening her arms and sweeping as many of them as possible into them as possible, kissing each of them in turn, “But we’re going to a nature resort. There’s going to be horses. There’s a lake and a river, one of the two has fish, I already checked. It’s not a beach but it is a resort. There will be hikes available. And yes, Grim, there is also a farm so you can find sheep and chickens.”

Grim smiles.

All of them exchange glances. It’s not exactly what they wanted, but they suppose it’s good enough.

“Good thing you know our kids,” Bull says, “Because I think we’ve committed already.”

-

“I think it’s time we get a dog,” Ellana says.

“How do you figure?”

“House, paid for. Cars, enough. Children, plentiful. Finances, stable. Loving family, incomplete without a dog,” Ellana says. “Even my orphanage had a dog.”

“That was a stray dog, Ellana,” Solas says as he adjusts his glasses as he creates a knitting pattern on his laptop, “That wasn’t actually your dog.”

“I had a dog growing up,” Ellana continues.

“That still wasn’t your dog,” Solas says, “That was also a stray dog.”

“If you feed a stray, play with a stray, teach a stray dog to do tricks and respond to a name, isn’t he already your dog?”

“No.”

“My point is, it’s time for our family to get a dog.”

“Is there a reason why this discussion is happening right now?” Solas says before Bull can respond, “Instead of in your own home?”

“Because I want you to help me get Aunt Ghilan’nain give me access to her kennel so I can get my kids the best dog available,” Ellana says. “If it’s from her at least I know that nothing strange is going on there. And if we go to the pound they’ll immediately go for the sickest one there and that only ends in heartbreak.”

“Ghilan’nain and I are currently, as they say, on the outs,” Solas says. “So I cannot help you.”

“What did you do?” Bull asks as he flips through channels on Solas’ stupidly big television that’s solely used to watch Senate live feeds. A damn waste, really.

“Maybe my younger sister did something wrong, have you considered that?” Solas says, sounding a little snippy as Ellana rolls her eyes.

She turns to look over the back of the couch and through the hallway, “You kids better be quiet because you’re behaving.”

“Yes, mom,” Is the chorus that they’re greeted with. Bull believes none of it.

“So what did you do?” Ellana asks, putting her feet on Bull’s lap as she lies back and flips through pictures on her phone. Presumably of dogs that Ghilan’nain has been sending her information about.

“She’s wrong,” Solas says, “And I refuse to capitulate to her mulishness just because she can’t see reason.”

“Is it a maths problem?”

“It’s simple logic and statistics,” Solas says.

“What is it?” Bull asks.

“The Monty Hall,” Solas replies.

“Ah,” Bull blinks, “I retract my question. I don’t want to know anymore about this. This is a hot topic question and I am bowing out with grace.”

“Wise man,” Ellana says. “Pass that down onto our kids.”

“It’s in the will,” Bull says, settling on a really shitty looking horror film based on yeti’s. If anything it’ll by fun to watch Solas and Ellana’s commentary on the thing as well as their facial expressions. Its a sport of its own, really. Krem and Rocky pretend to commentate on it sometimes.

“Ask Jun. Jun and Ghilan’nain are always close,” Solas says, “Mutual respect for agriculture.”

“I can’t ask Uncle Jun,” Ellana says, “Because Uncle Jun keeps trying to sell me on getting them a goat. I don’t want them to have a goat. I want them to have a dog.”

“Is the dog for you or for them?”

“It’s for us as a family and we’re not getting a goat,” Ellana says. “I love my yard too much to release a goat onto it.”

“Ask Sylaise, then. At this moment in time I don’t think that she and Ghilan’nain are arguing about something.”

“If I ask Aunt Sylaise, Uncle Jun will find out and then it’ll turn into a thing about chickens. Remember the chickens, Dad?”

Solas grimaces, “We did eat well for a few months.”

“No chickens,” Ellana says firmly. “I’d rather the goat than the chicken.”

“Get the goat then.”

“I’d deeply prefer a dog.”

“You’d prefer?”

“For the family.”

“Right.” Solas hums and then says, “I can knit your new goat a sweater if you like. I can make it look like it has dogs on it.”

“We’re getting a dog,” Ellana says. “Right, babe?”

“Sure, babe,” Bull says, petting her leg.

They’re getting a cat, actually, but she doesn’t need to know that yet.

 


	252. Chapter 252

“I would have thought that you, of all people, would oppose me the greatest,” Lavellan says, stepping out of the shadows and silently coming to stand next to Sera. “You could have remained hidden from me.”

“At this point,” Sera says, running her thumb over the well worn wood of her bow, “It isn’t even about morals and shit like that. Morals doesn’t keep you alive. Morals isn’t what’s gonna keep you going. Morals is a privilege considering we’re barely surviving. So it’s really you, yeah? Herald of Andraste back for round two.”

Lavellan hums. Sera turns to watch the ghostly green light of her spectral hand and arm flex and curl.

“Herald of something,” Lavellan concedes. “I am here to call you back. You are needed, Sera.”

“The Inquisition isn’t what it was supposed to be,” Sera says. “I’m not sure your Inquisition even knows its head from its ass.”

“They had lost their way. I have made them a new one,” Lavellan says. “I am collecting my weapons, Sera. The Inquisition and the remains of the resistance against Corypheus need them.”

“And I’m going to be one of those weapons, Inquisitor?” Sera sneers, “No offense, but your Inquisition is barely hanging on by the edge of its fingers. The Red Jennies help by default because there’s no one else to help, but even then it’s just barely crawling by.”

“No, Sera, I did not come to you to ask you to be one of my weapons,” Lavellan raises a dark eyebrow and tilts her chin towards the streets. “I have my weapon. Have you met the new Death?”

Sera turns and sees a towering shadow with a mask of silverite.

The shape of a bull’s skull.

The shadow raises one thick arm and gives a two fingered salute her way.

“I don’t need you to be one of my weapons, Sera,” Lavellan muses, sliding her flesh arm around Sera’s waist and pulling her close so that they’re side by side. Lavellan’s voice drops into a whisper, “I need you to be one of the hands who wields them. Get me my targets, call out their weak points, take aim, and fire. There’s no one better and worming their way through enemy defenses and burning open hidden cracks than you.”

A thrill of something runs down Sera’s spine. Possibility? Hope? Excitement?

Does it matter as long as it isn’t more of the same apathy?

“Pestilence,” Lavellan whispers and Sera’s vision is filled with vivid-white green as Lavellan’s hand passes over her face. Something heavy forms over Sera, solidifying on her head like a wreath, and covering her face but leaving her eyes free. “Unleash a plague of sorrows the likes of which Corypheus has never seen. Create a crack in his walls for Death to break through. That is what I will ask of you.”

-

“Tell me how Josephine died,” Lavellan says softly as she sits at the throne at the end of Skyhold’s great hall. “She is not here. I have not heard her name and there is no one in her place. Leliana is here, what remains of Cullen is here, but there is no Josephine. What happened to her?”

Skyhold had been empty for so long. Empty since they found it, dazed and confused with their loss and sudden lack of leadership.

Lavellan has taken to Skyhold like a dragon to skies, ruthlessly tearing down and rebuilding structures and lines of command and every understanding of the world as they had come to accept it.

“She died believing,” Bull says from behind the throne as Lavellan surveys her new domain, finding it severely lacking. “Optimistic and defiant. You would have been proud.”

Lavellan’s flesh hand curls into a claw on old wood. To his knowledge she’s already got people working on replacing it with something less decrepit. Something more suitable to her risen self and her new vision of the Inquisition and what it will become.

“And where is she?”

“We would have sent her to Antiva.” Bull does not say anything more.

He does not need to.

Lavellan is sharp enough to extrapolate from what he does not say out of courtesy.

The Inquisition, weak as it was, could not even send her back to her homeland. They burned her in the middle of the mountains, without a single marker to remind them where she was. To Bull’s knowledge, her remains wouldn’t have made it to Antiva anyway. There isn’t much of an Antiva left.

“When did it happen?”

“A few months after you. It was a surprise attack and we hadn’t found Skyhold yet. She was cornered but she had distracted the Templars long enough to get some children to safety. It was quick. One wound, straight through the throat,” Bull says. And then, “I have some of her hair.”

Lavellan’s hand seems to freeze and she slowly turns around, peering around the great old wreck of a throne she’s sitting on to look at him in the face.

“Where is it?” She asks.

“I hid it in the garden,” Bull replies. “Underneath the roots of an old oak tree.”

He does not know, to this day, why he took some of Josephine Montilyet’s hair. He liked her. She was nice. She was bright. She was beautiful and brave and true to herself. She understood herself and her values clearly and had an honest earnestness that he found - that he just found worthy of notice.

Before - before things went to complete and utter shit he thinks that they were becoming friends.

He does not know why he took a bit of her hair and hid it. He doesn’t even know why he’s telling Lavellan this. But he has.

“Show me,” Lavellan commands, “Show me where my ambassador is.”

Bull nods his head once and Lavellan stands over the hallway of the starting point of her new kingdom and declares to the empty, ragged, rotting mass of a thing, “At the very least, Josephine would not be here to be disappointed in what we must do. Let us be grateful that she was spared that, at least, for I will not be so kind as to spare my enemies anything. They will long for one quick wound.”

Bull knows from experience that Lavellan is a festering scar underneath the skin that cannot be dug out.

He could almost pity Corypheus, for the wrath he has called down from the dead.

 

 


	253. Chapter 253

“I’m almost entirely certain that she did not have legs when I first met her,” Bull confesses under his breath as Evelyn runs a hand through her hair. “In fact, I’m willing to bet my other eye that she had a fish tail. She’s a mermaid.”

“And why is your mermaid now a two-legged person? And how did she find you?”

“She isn’t telling, Boss,” Bull says. “But she did help me to, you know, not die after the skirmish out on the coast put a hole in our ship in the middle of stormy waters. We lost a lot of people we weren’t counting on losing, and I’m damn grateful that I’m not one of them right now.”

“But how did she find you? If she found you what’s to say that the Red Templars can’t track us? Won’t come for us?”

“We’ve got flags and guards everywhere, I don’t think finding us it the problem, just the defending our camps part,” Bull points out. “And not to be overly suspicious, but to be overly fucking suspicious, are you seriously going to turn away the only bit of good luck we’ve had in the past month?”

“Fine,” Evelyn flicks her wrist, “Handle this. I don’t - I don’t have the time for this, Bull. Handle her. Do what you think is best. I trust that you’ve got this. Just let me know if there’s anything that comes up. I know you can handle this.”

“You got it, Inquisitor,” Bull says, “Hey. You’re okay.”

“Thank you.” Evelyn’s smile is weak but present as she leans on a table covered in maps and supply line information and geological surveys, weighed down with rocks against the ocean wind. “You’re okay too. We’re both alright.”

If you say it enough times, eventually you’ll believe it.

They’re going to be okay.

Bull leaves her in the dark shadows of the command tent and finds the former mermaid sitting on some supply crates, looking around with undisguised awe and wonder.

“Hi,” Bull says and her eyes immediately go to him, focused with an unnerving intensity that Bull almost had forgotten. “Let’s get you sorted.”

He holds out his hand, a strange reversal of that night so many weeks ago.

The mermaid’s teeth are no less sharper on land than they were in the ink-black of the frothing ocean. Or less white.

Her hand is cold in his.

-

“What’s it like down there?” Sera asks the mermaid, called Lavellan according to Bull.

“Clear,” Lavellan replies, voice low and rasping. It makes Sera think of wading in murky water. And something in that water brushes against your bare foot, your ankle, or your calf - maybe it’s some weed or a fish, maybe it’s just the water itself or your imagination. But something feels like it’s brushed past you and you slip, suddenly lurching and there’s a second of blind-awful panic where you think fuck.

But you’re okay. Your foot is on something solid, still. You’re fine.

But your heart continues to race.

“Clear?” Sera repeats, “What’s that mean?”

“Clear,” Lavellan repeats slowly, “Things are clear in the sea. Here, on land, you say things that you do not mean and you think things you do not say and you do things you do not mean to do and you mean to do things that you do not. Here there is hiding. Here there are lies.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t lie.”

“Your lies are ugly and crude and cumbersome,” Lavellan says. “The lies here sink in the air, like weights. Lies should be like algae and sleeping fish and kelp beds. Floating, moving with the currents, flexible and fixed, neither going away or falling apart. Lies should not be what they are in the mouths of the people who are of the dry land. These lies are new to me, unfamiliar. They are not what they should be.”

Sera hasn’t got a damned clue what that’s supposed to mean.

“What else?” Sera asks, putting that mess aside for later. She can pick it apart when she’s alone or doing something else and needs busywork to go with her hands.

“Air tastes different,” Lavellan says, frowning down at her own hands as she tries to imitate Sera’s motions with the knife as they fletch arrows. Lavellan’s managed to get one or two decent ones, the rest...not so much decency there. “Trees are strange. They don’t move. Soil is heavy. Everything seems heavier.”

“Why did you come here if everything is so much worse, then?”

“I did not say worse,” Lavellan frowns. “And even if it was worse, I would still come.”

“Why?”

That’s the million sovereign question, isn’t it? The one that everyone’s been trying to figure out how to ask but hasn’t really gotten around to asking. The one that the Iron Bull puzzles over every time Lavellan falls into step next to him without word or second glance.

“Because I will not leave him to the fate that the wind gave him,” Lavellan replies. “There is a greater thing waiting to descend upon your shores. I refuse to turn my back to it and leave others to face it, unaware and unprepared.”

How noble.

“You don’t even know us,” Sera says. “But you’re helping. That’s good. That’s what good people do. I don’t know how to thank you for being good people when it’s so easy to be not good people.”

“There is no thanks needed for doing what is right,” Lavellan says.

“You aren’t even from here and you came over to help,” Sera points out. “That’s beyond what’s right, I think.”

The shit that the Inquisition is currently dealing with doesn’t touch upon anything that lives in the ocean, that Sera knows of.

Andraste’s tits, mermaids weren’t even a thing outside of old stories until Lavellan came walking out of the water looking all eerie with her gills and her eyes and her teeth and her hands and fins.

“The land and the sea are sisters,” Lavellan says, “And who am I to let the sons and daughters of my mother’s sister to suffer?”


	254. Chapter 254

“So, the good news is that we were wrong about guessing that she’d be the size of a supply wagon,” Dorian says slowly and as calmly as possible as Cassandra’s eyes take on a very, very dangerous sort of dawning understanding.

“And the bad news?” Evelyn says, extending an arm in front of Cassandra before the woman can make any moves.

“Well.” Dorian begins and resists the urge to fiddle with his robes. He’d outgrown fiddling with his clothes as a nervous habit before he was thirteen. He refuses to regress now in the face of mermaids, the end of the world, and Cassandra Pentaghast. “She’s started her first shedding cycle on land - and, it’s a very complicated thing that I could only closely pattern after snakes and other land dwelling reptiles, but based on her growth after this shedding cycle I’d say she’s ready to outpace a supply wagon, her father, her mother, and her grandmother by the time she’s done growing.”

“And do we have anything to match that in scale?” Evelyn asks, “For a frame of reference?”

“According to her,” Dorian answers, “Her father is twice the Iron Bull’s size. And her mother is thrice that of her father’s total.”

“I’m throwing her back into the river she came out of, I don’t care if she doesn’t want to go back and if it’s unlucky. There is no possible good fortune to be had from carting around a mermaid that’s going to grow to be the size of an entire galleon,” Cassandra announces.

“And here’s the worse news,” Dorian continues quickly before Cassandra can make do on her word, as she always, inevitably, does. “Sera’s gotten attached.”

“And how is this worse news?”

“Sera’s gotten attached, and she’s introduced our mermaid friend to our resident Arcanist and now our favorite Arcanist is attached and you know that means that where there’s a Dagna there’s a way. I think we might possibly be stuck with this mermaid.”

Evelyn blinks, “What happens if we have to move?”

“I suggest we don’t,” Dorian says. “I don’t think we can move her again, if she keeps growing like this. I am concerned with food supply, though.”

“We need to get rid of her right now,” Cassandra says, “Before this gets out of hand.”

“I’m fairly certain we’ve long passed that point,” Dorian says but steps aside quickly before Cassandra removes him. “She’s outgrown the bucket already. We’ve put her into some horse troughs that a few of our carpenters managed to put together to hold her. It’s a very tight fit and she says that she’s going to shed again within the fortnight.”

-

“Could you try looking a little less smug about your giant woman?” Varric asks as Bull grins up at the extremely large, extremely happy mermaid that’s towering over all of them. “I think the Seeker is going to burst something.”

“She’s not my giant woman,” Bull says, “She’s my giant mermaid. I don’t think you can be jumping into my arms anymore.”

Lavellan towers over both of them as she lies on the beach, leaning on her forearms as she leans over the Iron Bull and coos down at him.

“You’re so little,” She says, voice deep and rumbling through every bone in Varric’s body and shaking them all loose. “Were you all always so little?”

Varric thinks that he’s maybe the size of Lavellan’s ear and the Iron Bull is just barely the size of her face.

The beach had shook with the force of her weight when she threw herself out of the ocean waters and started waving at them, laughing with a voice that made everyone stagger a little.

She isn’t even fully out of the water, everything from her ribs down is still submerged and from this far away Varric can only guess as to how far her tail and fins go. When she was small enough to be carried around on land he remembers t hat her tail was roughly a little under twice her size.

Lavellan gently raises a finger and touches her fingertip to the Iron Bull’s chest and coos again, “I love this. I could wrap you up and take you home with me! None of my shiver believe me about you, you know. They think I made you up. They really don’t make them like you under the water.”

“That’s a hard pass,” Bull says, patting her finger. The sight is plain comical. “I’m still not down for drowning.”

“I’d bring you air,” Lavellan pouts.

“We’ll talk about that later,” Bull says. “Evelyn sent us to get your help.”

Lavellan’s ears and the gills and frills behind them flare out a little as she pushes up higher on her elbows. Varric and Bull jog back a bit so they can look up at her.

“What can I help with?”

“Evelyn’s been having trouble with Venatori along the coasts,” Bull says, shading his eye as he squints up at her, “She was hoping you could help and ask your friends and family to cause trouble for their ships. I don’t think she realized just how - uh. Big you’d have gotten.”

“Venatori,” Lavellan repeats slowly and hums, frills along her ears and shoulders vibrating as the air fills with the force of it. “Wait here.”

Lavellan quickly pushes backwards into the water, leaving huge gauges in the sand and gravel. The ocean waves crash and crack with the sound of her returning into the water, the black of her hair a huge cloud that fully disappears from view after a few minutes.

Bull and Varric exchange shrugs.

“What’s going on?” Cassandra asks from farther inland where she’s holding the horses, who, apparently, are terrified of this very large woman, “Will she help?”

“We told her that Evelyn wanted some help with the Venatori,” Bull says, “And she told us to wait here.”

There’s a loud rumbling and the three of them turn back towards the ocean to see two huge shapes cresting out of the sea.

It’s Lavellan and...

A friend.

The two mer-people come closer to the shore and they realize that the two are carrying something in their arms.

Lavellan pushes up onto the beach first, gravel and sand and ocean debris piling up underneath her forearms as she deposits about three or four Tevinter-marked ships in front of them.

The merman behind her beaches himself next and sets down another four before sliding backwards and into the ocean again.

“These are the Venatori?” Lavellan asks, head tilting as she pushes wet hair out of her face. It lands against her back with a loud slap as she blinks, a quick thin film sliding over her eyes just out of time with her eyelids.

“They were,” Varric whistles, “Where’d you get these?”

“One of them hit my ma when she was rising to eat,” Lavellan says, “It gave her a good hit to the fin. Da and my brother didn’t take too kindly to that so while I was helping my ma get back to our shiver they went and knocked them down. We’ve been avoiding all the ships with the same mark since. Should we not be avoiding them?”

Bull looks at Varric. Varric looks at Cassandra.

Cassandra sighs.

“Lavellan,” She says, head craning up to look at the woman.

“Yes?”

“The Inquisition would like to formally request your assistance in fighting against the Venatori and Corypheus. Will you assist us by stopping as many Venatori ships along the coast as possible and aiding the Inquisition in gathering information?”

“Of course! Anything for Evelyn!” Lavellan replies.

“The Iron Bull will be your liaison,” Cassandra says and Bull laughs.

“I knew you liked me,” Bull says. “You don’t hit someone with a stick that many times and not grow to be fond of them.”

“If it will get you to stop sulking,” Cassandra replies. “You can have your giant mermaid.”

 


	255. Chapter 255

Cullen is of the opinion that the Storm Coast is plenty intimidating and fearsome enough on its own without the addition of several mer-people swimming circles around Inquisition ships.

Lavellan, the woman they’ve known since she was roughly Sera’s size and is now the size of a very large Chantry or perhaps one of Skyhold’s taller towers and just as wide, is the largest one which doesn’t mean much.

She’s a dark and fearsome shadow underneath the dark water, illuminated only by her fellow mermaids.

Everyone was fascinated to learn that mermaids come in types.

Lavellan, and most of her kin, are stealth predators who make their way through the ocean’s depths rising only to soak in some sun or otherwise play in shallow water. The rest of the time they’re deep in the trenches and cliffs of the sea.

But Lavellan knows some other merpeople who are generally less attack oriented and come with glowing stripes and dots and patterns on their body. Said patterns are currently illuminating the cove they’re in and creating the distinct outlines of Lavellan, large and towards the bottom to make room for the other fish, and Lavellan’s shiver-mates, not as large, but sleek and sinuous as they slide between their glowing friends.

Bull waves into the water and Lavellan’s outline slowly rises and her head and eyes breech the surface of the water a few yards from them, sending waves towards their ship.

Her smaller relatives and friends swim through the thick black cloud of her hair and cast eerie yellow and green and blue lights onto her skin and scales.

“You ready?” Bull asks and Lavellan’s fins flare out in response. She lets out a low warbling sound that makes Cullen’s entire body feel like it’s been plucked like some sort of lyre.

Lavellan submerges and starts to swim out of the cove, past the breaker and each of her fellow clansmen follows her. Dark shapes in dark water.

Half of the glowing mermaids follow after her, winking out as they dive into her hair one by one.

The rest remain circling the Inquisition ships.

The purpose of this is not to take out the Venatori. That will come later. The purpose of this expedition will be to find their routes and how they’re slipping through combined Orlais and Fereldan and Free Marcher patrols.

It’s a nerve wracking half hour of waiting for Lavellan to get a head start before Cullen signals the rest of the ships to follow. The glowing mermaids split up to swim underneath each Inquisition vessel, submerging themselves deeper to dim their light and skimming up clouds of ocean sand to hide.

“There,” Bull says and points out into the dark night to a single speck of bright yellow bobbing near the surface.

They guide their ship towards the yellow light, orange and red lights flaring up every so often to warn them away from rough and shallow waters.

Several red and orange merpeople are swimming in a cluster that they carefully pull their ship up parallel to.

Lavellan is mostly submerged except for her eyes, and the fins about her ears which are vibrating in the night air.

“Got them,” Lavellan says, tilting her head back to expose her mouth. “Four of Lavellan clan’s fastest swimmers and two of our ocean-lights with the strongest stamina. They’ll swim in rotation and report back to us here within a fortnight. Another eight are in pursuit. To replace any who get tired.”

“Thank you,” Cullen says, “Your help is much appreciated, Lavellan.”

Her fins flicker as they close down to her head and skin, “Get them out of our ocean. They’re mean and rude and I think we’re all this close to just throwing them out of the water with our bare hands.”

-

“She’s already bigger than the waterfall and lake underneath Skyhold,” Dorian says. “And she’s not very happy about how cramped it is down there. I think she’s faking being happy because she doesn’t want us to put her back in the river we found her.”

“I don’t think she’ll fit in the river she jumped out of anymore,” Josephine says, “Did she swim upstream from something bigger?”

“The ocean, possibly,” Cullen says. “I’m fairly certain that the river you found her at was connected to the ocean at its end point.”

“It’s bad luck to turn away auspicious signs,”, Josephine says, biting her lower lip.

Everyone suddenly braces, Cullen reaches out and grabs Dorian by the upper arm and Josephine around the waist and focuses on distributing his weight as Skyhold shakes.

Evelyn frowns hard as she braces her hands on the wartable and stares at the vague area where Lavellan first jumped out of the water and into the Iron Bull’s arms.

“I think that was her,” Dorian says, “Turning or maybe yawning.”

“Maker,” Leliana’s eyebrows raise. “I’m afraid, as close as you two are Inquisitor and as unfortunate as it would be, we are going to have to put her back in the ocean before she gets too large.”

“And we, somehow, aren’t past that point already? There’s a mermaid stuck in our underground cave system who’s causing earth-shaking tremors whenever she moves.” Dorian says, baffled.

“We’ll work on that,” Leliana says, “We can still get her out of Skyhold’s gates. If she sheds one more time at the rate of growth she’s going she’s going to die crushed. Now. Who’s going to tell the Iron Bull, Sera, and Dagna, that their favorite mermaid is going to be released back where she really belongs?”

Evelyn covers her face with her hand and everyone groans.

“Can we split them up and tell them separately, perhaps?” Josephine suggests.

“Well, we’re definitely going to need Dagna’s help to move her. So maybe go for her, first,” Dorian suggests.

“Let’s hope that the three of them are amiable to letting their friend go without much fuss or convincing,” Cullen says. “Because as terrible it would be for our luck to turn away a mermaid, I think it would be worse to have one die underneath our castle.”


	256. Chapter 256

“Thanks for sending a driver to pick us up,” Ellana says as she herds her children in through her dad’s front door. Each one sleepily follows after the other, relying entirely on Grim in the front not to steer them wrong.

“You’re welcome,” Dad says, watching the train of children fondly from the bottom of the stairs as they proceed up and towards the rooms they’ve all claimed for themselves over the years. “I told you that you and the Iron Bull would be too tired to navigate traffic after that flight, let alone get back to your house and handle settling in by yourselves.”

“I should have never doubted you, Dad,” Ellana says, kissing the older elf on the cheek and then yawning.

“And where is the Iron Bull? You posted a picture of him earlier today so I’m assuming you haven’t gotten rid of him yet,” The elf says, fondly running a hand over his daughter’s hair.

“He’s asleep in the car. I haven’t the strength to wake him up,” Ellana says. “I will, of course, his back and neck are going to kill him, not even mentioning the knee, but at this moment in time I was thinking it would be easier to get the kids to bed first.”

Ellana quickly leans back, holding onto the bannister as she yells up the stairs, “Everyone brush your teeth and wash your faces before going to bed. No dirty socks on those sheets! I mean it! I’ll check on you all before I go to sleep to make sure.”

There are several sleepy murmurs and yawned responses of acknowledgement and the sounds of doors opening and closing and shuffling feet.

“Do you need help fetching your husband?” Dad asks, “Will any of you be eating tonight? I had some food prepared for you.”

“I don’t think I can wake any of them up enough to eat without falling asleep mid-chew,” Ellana admits. “I’ll have something, and I’m sure the Iron Bull will too. Let me just get him.”

The Iron Bull is snoring away in the front seat of the van Dad had sent to pick them up.

Ellana shakes him and he grumbles, swatting at her.

“You’re going to regret it,” Ellana says. He’s already in a world of pain after the flight back. Ellana takes his wrist and pulls hard. Bull groans, slowly coming awake and dragging a hand down his face.

“We’re here?” Bull asks, “Kids?”

“Settled and going to bed,” Ellana says. “We’ll leave the bags for tomorrow. I’ve already had the perishables moved inside. All that’s left is you, love. Come on. Let’s get to our own bed. our nice, soft, perfectly comfortable bed.”

“This isn’t our bed, this is your Dad’s house where everything is worth more than my organs on the black market,” Bull groans, but slowly unfolds himself out of the van, grimacing as he stretches. “I’m never getting on an airplane again I don’t care how good the beaches or the sights or whatever is; I’m too old for this.”

Ellana stretches up and kisses the underside of his jaw, fondly brushing at the stubble on the side of his face.

“You say that, but the second one of the kids asks you to go somewhere with those puppy eyes you’re going to cave like cards.”

“Don’t say it out loud, that just makes it more true and undeniable.”

Bull drapes an arm around Ellana’s shoulders as they shuffle towards the house.

“Good to be almost home,” Bull says, because it won’t be home until they’re in their house and in the bed they chose and bought together, freshly showered in the bathroom they renovated, with the soap they bought and the towels they picked out and the sounds of their house all around them and their children and their things all where they should be.

“Soon,” Ellana promises.

-

“So,” Dalish says, unsubtle as she bounces onto the couch next to the Iron Bull and puts her head on his arm, batting her eyelashes up at him.

“So,” Bull repeats back as he tinkers with fixing Lavellan’s toaster.

“Is she our mom now?” Dalish asks. “Can we call her mom?”

Bull jumps a little as what looks like every single child in the house pops out around the sofa and starts asking the same.

“Can we?”

“Is she our mom now?”

“Please? I’ve been so good this year. I haven’t even gotten sent to the principal’s office this semester.”

“I deserve this!”

Bull turns around to look at all his kids, sans Mahanon who’s sleeping upstairs in Krem’s room.

The two have the flu and her Dad is out of the country on business for the next week.

Bull founds this out when he went to her house last night to drop off some of Mahanon’s schoolwork.

Ellana looked like she was about to throw up on the planters as she struggled to stay standing while also trying to look polite and like a good host.

Bull stared at her before pushing past her into he house, going up the stairs and finding Mahanon curled up in his bed and wheezing.

He probably crossed a lot of lines as he grabbed their toothbrushes and cellphones and threw them into his truck to take them back to his house.

Ellana and Mahanon weren’t protesting that much, though. That could be because they both passed out as soon as they were out of the drive.

Lucky it’s a weekend. He’d separated the two because it looked like Mahanon was on a rebound and Ellana was in the middle of it.

Krem and Grim are in with Stitches and Rocky. They’ve had tighter fits before.

“Why do you ask?” Bull asks.

“Because you’re fussing over her,” Skinner says immediately. “That means you’re attached and she’s going to be around.”

“And because you crossed boundaries,” Rocky adds, “Normally you’re super careful about that. Unless you’re attached.”

“Have any of you asked Ellana about her opinions about being called mom?” Bull asks.

“She said to ask you first,” Grim signs, quickly, “Can we?”

Bull turns the toaster over in his hands before putting it down and opening his arms.

Immediately all of his kids swarm him and Bull stares at the TV, dazed.

“I’m attached,” He repeats, dumbly.

“Yup,” Krem nods.

“Shit,” Bull says.

“Is that a yes?

Hell yes it’s a yes.

“That’s a let me talk to her about it when she doesn’t have a fever.”


	257. Chapter 257

"Your daughter has the eye,” Sylaise says.

Solas puts down his cup of tea, “Excuse me?”

“She has the eye,” Sylaise repeats, ever cryptically. Solas waits a beat for her to elaborate.

“Ellana has always had a knack for up cycling garbage into things semi-worthy of being called appropriate,” Solas says, “And a strange taste for color that turns into something…good.”

“Not that kind of eye, you dense numbskull,  _the all-seeing eye_ ,” Sylaise says, “Yes, Ellana is a good interior decorator but that’s a different kind of eye.”

“Oh,” Solas looks down at the tea. He wonders if she’s lowered herself enough to sabotaging her own tea, the only leaf juice in the world he’ll tolerate. “That’s…unfortunate.”

Ellana is precocious enough without having the sight as well. He has a brief moment of panic when the inevitable happens and Ellana starts learning shellwork on top of all of it. He’ll never have a moment’s peace again. Ever. also she’ll be insufferable about insisting that everything she says is right because she has the all-seeing eye.

“Are you sure it isn’t just an uncanny nack for interior decorating?” Solas asks.

Sylaise pours him a new cup of tea, “Your daughter has the all seeing eye and she’s going to be insufferable about it and you’d best send her off to Dirthamen to start teaching how to use it.”  

Solas doesn’t think he emotes anything particularly obvious but Sylaise just looks at him over the rims of her glasses and Solas sighs.

“It’s either Dirthamen or Elgar’nan,” Sylaise says. “And I think Ellana would drive Elgar’nan over the edge and into a brand new spiral of obsessive paranoia if you gave her the chance. I would sooner die than deal with our brother like that again. Do you hear me, Solas?  _I would sooner poison myself_.”

“Point taken and understood and emphatically agreed to, I’ll write Dirthamen as soon as I return home,” Solas says.

The two of them return to drinking tea in comfortable silence as Solas contemplates his future with his daughter as a fledgling witch, while Sylaise resumes her embroidery of a knight being devoured by nettles under the watchful gaze of a pleased dragon. He assumes it’s for Mythal’s upcoming name-day celebration, or it could just be a new addition to Sylaise’s collection of embroidered family moments.

She has one in the hallway of himself as a wolf chasing a merchant cart through a forest full of eyes. He rather likes it. His sister has always had a wonderful ability to capture so much in needle and thread.

“Are you quite certain she just isn’t very good at picking up little signals?” Solas asks.

Sylaise picks up a ball of yarn with a large wooden knitting needle stuck through it and lobs it at his head.

Solas neatly ducks.

“Alright, fine. Fine. I won’t question you again on this particular topic.”

Sylaise hums in disbelief.

“What about her brother?”

“No all-seeing eye,” Sylaise says immediately.

Solas breathes a sigh of relief.

“But he has the touch.”

“Of?”

“Of what? He’s got a good touch. Have you seen the boy set a bone? Excellent. And he’s very good at craftswork. Jun’s been wanting him as an apprentice for years but I think that Ghilan’nain is going to get to him first.”

“But…no magic?”

“Being able to successfully guide a horse through a difficult birth where the foal was the wrong way about and have both dam and foal live is its own type of magic,” Sylaise says, “As is being able to pound out gold foil that thin.”

“But not like Ellana’s magic?”

“No, he doesn’t have that sort of magic, are you relieved yet?”

“Not at all.”

-

“I come from a very long line of mages and such,” Ellana says as she pours the glowing and bubbling pink concoction into a little cup and takes a sip, “But you know, not a single one of them has ever had something like this happen to them.”

“Trevelyan and Rutherford are one of a kind,” Bull agrees, as he watches the window for anyone coming. The general idea has been that everyone’s gone into hiding for the last twenty four hours remaining of Witch Surana’s fake curse because thus far no one’s been able to convince either Evelyn or Cullen that all they have to do is kiss.

Cullen can’t be convinced by the merit of,  _one_ , Evelyn Trevelyan is not interested,  _two_ , she is his superior in every way and he shouldn’t try crossing that line because it is incredibly inappropriate and a set up for heartbreak and other repercussions, and  _three_ , why would he possibly be her true love?

He does not protest that he does not, himself, love her. Which is perhaps the only upside to this. He isn’t in denial about his feelings, he’s just deeply repressing them.

Evelyn on the other hand is in full on repression. She doesn’t love Cullen. Cullen doesn’t love her. Of course not. How could that possibly be?

This is mostly because the two are very, very bad at flirting.

Everyone’s retreated to various hide-aways and barred themselves in.

Alternatively, they’re all getting drunk.

Ellana nudges her teacup full of bubbling pink liquid towards Bull. He declines, waving his hand and she shrugs, taking the teacup back.

“They could have made it so much more simple,” Ellana continues, “I can’t believe that it’s even gotten this far. I can’t believe I thought Evelyn was smart and sensible. Now I realize that Maxwell is the sensible one between the two. That’s a complete turn around. I had to rearrange my entire worldview.”

“Earth shaking,” Bull agrees, quickly flicking the curtains closed when he sees a flash of auburn that may or may not be Evelyn. It could also be Maxwell, but he’d rather not risk being seen.

“My Aunt and Uncle are deeply in love and it only took them three wars,” Ellana continues, “The last one was merely a formality, of course. And really, the second one was more a flirtation. The first one was completely genuine, though. So it only took them one war. Not this whole fake-curse nonsense.”

Bull turns to look at Ellana. Of course she’s being completely serious.

Ellana takes a sip of her bubbling concoction.

“To be fair, it took us this entire cursed year,” Bull points out, while part of his mind is also wondering if he knows any of those three wars and if he fought in them.

“That’s to the side of things,” Ellana waves her hand, “We’re a side-effect of this cursed year. Totally different.”

“Uh-huh. Right,” Bull muses, settling back in his chair to face her fully, “So I guess we should thank Witch Surana for that, huh.”

“We should go visit again.” Ellana perks up in her chair, smiling, “We should go visit her as soon as this is all over tonight!”

“Maybe we should thank her by not ever seeing her again,” Bull says, remembering Surana’s expression when she saw Ellana bursting into her castle. “Ever.”

“But I want to visit her dog.”


	258. Chapter 258

“Blade Lavellan, there is a Raven from the Choir of Silence requesting to meet with you, shall I allow them in?”

Mahanon’s focus is broken from the repetitive and soothing process of winding cloth around his legs for early morning practice. His hands do not fumble, it has been many years since his hands have fumbled. But his mind does stutter.

“Is the Raven named?” Mahanon asks, eyes focused on the off-white color of the cloth held in suspension between his shin and his hand, the remaining parts of the strip soft and well worn in his palm.

“It is your sister, I think.”

“Bring her to the courtyard, I will receive her,” Mahanon nods and resumes winding the cloth around his leg, careful to keep it tight and firm but not so tight it would be dangerous.

He does not hear his fellow Blade leave, but he feels it.

Mahanon takes a few more minutes to truly experience and savor the peace of the dawn, before the rest of the world is awake and moving and the volume and intensity of life increases with the light of the sun.

And then he goes to his sister.

Ellana is standing in the middle of the courtyard just beyond the entry gates. He can see three of his fellow Blades watching from the shadows. He wonders if Ellana can see them, too.

She would have been an admirable Blade, herself. It is a shame that she consigned herself to the Choirs, though he can understand why.

“Sister,” Mahanon says, moving close to her and taking her by her upper arms, drawing close enough to press his lips to the side of her face. The beads of her uniform’s veil are cool against his skin. “Come, let us sit.”

He puts his arm around her shoulders as he guides her through the maze of the Blade’s barracks, away from the many, many observing eyes.

Once he is reasonably sure that they are away from as many eavesdroppers and silent observers as he can be, he lowers his arm from her and steps away.

“Sister, what brings you to the Blades? Should you not be preparing for the morning aubades with the Choirs of the Sun and the Choir of the Forge?”

Ellana sweeps her arm up and throws back the veil of beads from her face, throwing it over her head and onto her back.

“Mahanon,” She says, voice low and whispered, “There is something I want.”

This is not unusual.

“You took a vow of silence,” Mahanon says, just as quiet. “You have three months left of it. You will become a Singer of Silence, do not take these risks.”

“I cannot remain silent any longer, and that is the issue, brother,” Ellana hisses. “I need your help.”

“Is that help you seek helping you find the ability to close your mouth? I fear I’ve never been able to help you with that,” Mahanon says, casting a glance around. “ _Ellana_ , you risk too much. I cannot protect you if someone knows you have broken your vow. You may be punished.”

“ _Fuck the vow_ ,” Ellana sneers, “I have more important things to worry about than advancing rank within the Choir, and so do you.”

“Do I?” Mahanon’s eyebrows raise. “Because as far as I am aware I am doing just fine with the Blades.”

In fact, Mahanon may make Master of Blades before thirty at this rate. He knows the current Master has selected a few of his fellow Blades for greater attentions, and Mahanon knows that he is also one of them. It is only a matter of work and endurance and luck, now.

“Think outside of our walls for one moment, brother,” Ellana draws closer, snagging her fingers into the front of his tunic and pulling for emphasis. “The Qunari are in the Free Marches, an Archdaemon was sited close to Fereldan’s borders, and there are strange, strange things that are afoot. We could be facing a Blight. We could be facing an invasion. And what do the Elders say? What does anyone say? Nothing. There is too much silence in our nation, brother. Silence about too many things. When was the last time you went to the farms? The borders? When have you went to the other temples?”

“What reason would I have to go to the other temples?”

“ _Exactly_. Things are not right, brother. Our nation has settled into strange and weakening ruts and trenches. We have built invisible walls that should not be. We are weak against invaders, we are weak against ourselves. We are  _weak_.”

Mahanon doesn’t know what expression his face is making, but it can’t be good.

Ellana reaches up and touches her cold fingertips to his cheek.

“Mahanon, our nation is weak, our people are without leader, and our country faces threats on all sides. What does our Heart do?”

“The Heart is old, sister. They are looking for a replacement already. We must ease the transition and work hard to not stress the Heart further. They have served us well.”

“ _That is not the role of the Heart_ ,” Ellana hisses. “And you know it. In your own heart, you know that we are not here to protect and coddle the Heart of the People.  _The Heart is meant for us_.”

“You want to become the new Heart,” Mahanon whispers.

“I want us to open our eyes so that we aren’t dumb and blind to the threat that will inevitably come to bite us in the ass,” Ellana says. “I want us to be prepared and ready,  _together_ , instead of what we are now. Never before has our nation been so…so deaf to the world and to each other. I am a disciple of Silence, it is true. But this is not the purpose of silence, this is not what it is for.”

Ellana’s mouth breaks for the first time, showing her nerves.

“Mahanon, help me become the new Heart. Please. I need you.”


	259. Chapter 259

“I want that woman out of my house,” Ellana declares. “Maxwell, I don’t care if she’s your mother, I don’t care that our house is technically Trevelyan property, and I give approximately zero fucks that you’re absolutely and horrifically unable to even get a word in edgewise around her, but if she doesn’t leave this house in the next ten minutes I’m going to do something drastic.”

“Drastic?” Kaaras asks as he holds his pet rabbit in his large hands, nervously running his hand over its soft white back to try and get his nerves together.

“Please define drastic,” Maxwell says. “Drastic in that you’re going to burn the house down with all of us inside or drastic as in…I don’t even know. You’ll hex her with pock marks that create a shape of a penis?”

“Don’t be crass, Max,” Ellana sneers, “I’m going to call  _my_  mother to deal with  _your_  mother.”

“ _Andraste_ ,” Maxwell’s knees give out and Kaaras quickly grabs him by the upper arm to keep him from fainting onto the floor. “Not your mother. Ellana, my mother is racist, classist, extremely offensive, and everything else you can think of. If you invite your mother over there’s going to be bloodshed, I tell you. That and I’m fairly certain your mother is still cross with me for the whole Iron Bull thing.”

Ellana’s teeth flash, “Most excellent.”

“Ellana’s mother was a Hufflepuff,” Kaaras whispers to Max, “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“Maybe it wont be so bad, he says,” Maxwell puts a hand over his eyes, “You know Ellana’s drama has to come from somewhere, right? And it’s not her father.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I spent a month at their preserve once and it’s a month of my life I can never get back or forget.”

“Wait - where was I?”

“You were doing a tour of the colleges to figure out which one you wanted to apply for. Ellana and I got lonely.”

“Ten minutes, Max,” Ellana says, “I’m going to stand by the floo right now, and if I can still hear your mother  _screeching away_  by the time those ten minutes are up, I’m getting my mother.”

“Ellana, give me at least twenty,” Maxwell pleads.

“Fifteen,” Ellana compromises. “Starting now.”

Maxwell runs out of the room.

Kaaras returns to gently petting his rabbit.

“I’m going to hide in your study,” Kaaras says. “I don’t think she’d even go near your study.”

“Why would she go to yours but not mine?” Ellana asks as she watches the clock.

“Because she thinks it’s entertaining that  _the ox boy_  can read,” Kaaras replies, “She’s spitefully ignoring your existence, on the other hand.”

“I hate her so much,” Ellana says. “It’s a miracle that our Max came out of a woman like that.”

“I’d rather not think on it too much, if you don’t mind,” Kaaras makes a face. “Or at all.”

-

“I asked you to do one thing for me,” Mahanon says, “Stay out of trouble, don’t attract to much attention to yourself, don’t do anything reckless or stupid. And what do you do?”

“Become my school’s champion for the children death tournament? I want you to know, I only put my name in as a joke,” Ellana says defensively, “Also, keep your voice down, things echo in the dungeons and I’m probably not supposed to be using the floo to talk to you right now.”

“Did you want me to physically come over there and drag you in front of your entire school? Because I can do that. Mother and Father and everyone else might just come to join me and have their say, too.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t think the cup would actually choose  _me!_ ” Ellana waves her hands, “How was I supposed to know the damn thing is broken? I thought it would choose - I don’t know. Some clever Ravenclaw? A valiant Gryffindor? A steady and responsible Hufflepuff? A slightly more well respected Slytherin than me?”

Mahanon scowls at her.

“Well. Now I’m the champion for our school, don’t you want to wish me luck so I don’t die? It’d be poor showing, I think.”

“I’m not going to go watch you,” Mahanon says. “I have my hands full with the preserve and convincing mother and father not to rally the entire clan and march on Hogwarts to forcibly pull you out of the tournament.”

“That’s a small relief.”

“So don’t make me hear about you dying,” Mahanon continues. “I don’t want to hear anything about you for the rest of the year unless it’s something about you doing well or succeeding. Do not make me hear about you dying from a newspaper, Ellana Lavellan. Do not do that to me.”

-

“You’re going to be an auror,” Mahanon repeats as Ellana helps him move bales of hay. “Are you insane?”

“Listen,” Ellana says, “Listen to what I have to tell you and tell me that my only recourse isn’t to become an auror.”

“Alright, fine, I’m listening,” Mahanon says, throwing his braid of his shoulder as he straightens up, crossing his arms and giving Ellana  _a look_  that she doesn’t appreciate because it speaks volumes to his faith in her judgement.

“Maxwell is an auror,” Ellana starts.

“Yes, we all know that, he has been for almost two years now, go on?”

“Maxwell works for the Iron Bull as an auror. On his team. For the past almost two years. And I only found this out about a week ago,” Ellana continues.

Mahanon blinks very slowly and the tattoo he has of a stag on his forearm raises its head, seems to glow on his skin a little, and runs up his arm, disappearing up his sleeve.

“Excuse me? Maxwell works for  _whom?_ ”

“You heard me,” Ellana says. “The Iron Bull recruited him straight to his team.”

“You need to out-auror them both,” Mahanon declares.

“Right?!? I know! Obviously!” Ellana sits down on a bale of hay, scowling. “I’ve got to show them what happens when you slight Ellana Lavellan in such a way.”

“Well, I’ll tell mother and father for you,” Mahanon says, “And I’m sure it’ll filter to the rest of the clan from there. It goes without saying that we all support you because  _no one slights a Lavellan_.”

Ellana and Mahanon bump their knuckles together, exchanging solemn nods.

“I’ll do our clan proud, Mahanon.”

“I trust that you will.”


	260. Chapter 260

“I have found gods, and I have judged them lacking. And thus I have replaced them with ones better suited for the task at hand. The right tool for the right job, no?” Lavellan’s hand of bone and flesh and metal and dragon scales raises as she gestures to the masked assembly behind her. “Look, in your grand tradition, I have even borne them with masks to be more palatable. Chantry Mothers and Chantry Sisters and various sundry remains of what used to be the  _civilization_  of Orlais, you cannot tell me that I have not made the most generous attempt at easing your  _suffering_.”

Bull wants to roll his eye. The words are pretty, but the tone is dull, rusted metal. Sarcasm and the least amount of sincerity and everyone knows it.

The Inquisition and the threats that face Thedas have long since grown past the small and squabbling, whining, mewling strings of  _diplomacy_. The time for diplomacy passed years ago, in Haven, when the sky first tore open and people made choices. Most chose wrong.

And a very few unfortunate ones have lived to bear the burden of that choice.

Unfortunately, they continue to think small, focus on the things that won’t help in the face of complete and total annihilation, and make the wrong choices.

Sera, next to him, snorts very loudly underneath her mask, tossing her head back as she kicks her chair back and puts her boots up on the rail that’s separating them from their Inquisitor.

On Bull’s other side Cole mumbles something, the wide brim of his hat swallowing his face and his mask as he pulls his legs up and curls up small.

The panel of judges glare at both Sera and Cole and then at Bull just because, and while they’re at it they also turn the eye on Pavus and Dagna, because Lavellan’s new assembly of hands is literally everything the general population of Thedas hates.

Not Fereldan or Orlais, full of magic, queer as fuck, and every sort of wrong-minded that the majority likes to put a fear of into their kids.

That is, if they still had kids to teach. Not many kids these days. Also, not a lot of parents. One or the other dies and the one left behind becomes something else.

It’s an ugly transformation.

But Bull is pretty sure that there aren’t really any pretty ones left in this world.

“You are a heathen, you are worse a monster than what we face,” A noble with a very worn, very dirty, and very tarnished mask says, pounding his fist on the table. “Working with you is the same as throwing ourselves to the Red Templars and the Venatori.”

“If you like, you may side with them, if it really is all the same to you. Because it  _is_  all the same to me,” Lavellan says.

None of them even have to be facing her to know that she’s got a very sharp upward turn to her eyebrow going. Bull relaxes from his position directly behind her and folds his hands over his lap, slouching as he rolls his neck.

He glances towards the others to see how they’re putting up with this very annoying whining session.

Dagna hasn’t been paying attention since opening statements and has a notepad and pencil out. He can’t see what she’s working on from this angle - she’s on his bad side - but Sera’s leaning over and she seems to be very interested so Bull’s guessing maybe it’s got some sort of pyrotechnics involved. On his other side, next to Cole, Pavus is picking his nails and making a very good show of being utterly disinterested. Because he is.

All of them are.

“Whatever, whoever, and I do mean that, gets between me and Corypheus will be removed,” Lavellan continues. “I, myself, might do the removing, of course. But they  _will_  be removed. And I, for one, cannot even begin to imagine how one would try explaining joining Corypheus over the Inquisition. You did, after all, name as  _Herald of Andraste_  before I died. And as I am informed, continued to name me such during my absence.”

Absence, she says, as though she had stepped out of the world for a drink or to use the lavatory or fetch something she’d forgotten elsewhere. Absence, she says, like she’d taken a quick nap or a few days to recover from a cold.

Absence, she says, and Bull’s mind fills with images of a red sky swallowing the blue one, red lyrium cracking stone and swallowing forests, and endless intolerable silence with the death of birds and crickets and mice and the dozens of things that create the sounds that fall into the background. Absence, she says, and Bull’s mind turns to the sky.

 _Look to the sky, for one day soon, the dawn will come_.

And she did come.

Furious and hateful.

(The image makes his fingers twitch, his pulse jump, his mouth dry, and his skin ease into something molten. Cole leans away from him in response.)

“I do not care if you think I am a heathen. You have always thought I was a heathen,” Lavellan continues. “I really, really couldn’t care no matter what you tell me. You are nothing to me. All of this is nothing to me. I exist in a place in which most things are small frivolities to me. Annoyances at the most. There are very few things which exist for me, you see. There are few things that matter to the dead. The truth of the matter is that regardless of whether you approve of me, regardless of whether I, or my Inquisition, is palatable to you, I am going to  _slaughter_  Corypheus and his Venatori and his Templars. I am going to shred them from the world, with my hands and my nails and my teeth. I will leave  _scars_  upon this world to match my own and those scars will be in the shapes of my  _hands_.”

Lavellan’s spectral hand flares as it clenches into a fist. The light is no longer harsh or blinding. At least, not to Bull.

He wonders if it’s strange that he now finds it comforting. Solid. And as reassuring as the feeling of a sword in his hand and his own blood running equally hot over and underneath his skin.

“I am going to let loose upon this land a violent and much needed pestilence,” Lavellan continues. “And we will devour and tear asunder every single remnant of this proud and arrogant  _dreamer_  who thinks himself greater than creation. And we will eat at him and his forces until he is made small and weak and  _fearful_. And then,  _and only then_ , I will swallow him whole; Corypheus once attempted to consume me and all that I am and he  _failed_. And there is a price to pay for failure. Now remember that. If you wish to strike against me and those who have  _freely chosen_  to follow me as I walk towards Corypheus on his false throne, and you  _fail_ , I will  _remember it_. I will make sure it is  _remembered_. And it may not be right then, it may not be the day or year or decade after. But when I am done with Coryeheus, and when I am finished with everything and everyone else,  _I will come back for you_.”


	261. Chapter 261

Sylaise examines the babe in the roughly assembled cradle Solas had quite frantically and hurriedly put together less than a night ago, nods her head, and most solemnly announces, “I will gift this babe with the insight to see the hidden uses in things.”

And she touches her fingertips to the baby’s forehead. Solas watches as a faint off-gray light seems to fog over the baby’s body before dissipating. The baby coos and blinks extremely charming eyes.

Solas smiles and nods.

He had been hoping for something a little more  _practical_  from his sister,  _specialist in hearth magic and champion of the household arts_ , or really any of his siblings. Something like some sort of carrier he could use to strap the babe to his back when he tended his garden or walked the forest, or a bassinet, or a  _real cradle_. Maybe even some swaddling or a teething ring. A new milk cow would have been most appreciated. Or a few baubles or trinkets for his newly acquired child to entertain herself with.

He really shouldn’t ever leave his house. Strange things happen to him when he leaves his house.

Like strange old couples giving him a random baby - who’s parents he’s not even sure how to find, seeing as he hasn’t a clue as to where the people who gave her to him  _got her from -_ and disappearing without a trace. It’s an admirable feat. Not many can evade his scrying or his tracking magics.

Elgar’nan nudges their sister aside and examines the girl who clumsily jerks her fists.

He nods, “I shall grant this girl the charisma and power to sway nations and lead men to their deaths in her name.”

Solas feels a headache come on as he watches his elder brother place the heel of his palm against the girl’s forehead and a warm shimmer of gentle heat sinks into her, momentarily causing her to glow from the inside out before fading.

It’s like they think this child is going to be a conquerer of some sort. Ideally, Solas would just appreciate it if she doesn’t get the black death or some other sort of disease and lives to be at least thirty. He’d also deeply appreciate it if his siblings would stop giving her so-called gifts of character traits that can be learned and taught and nurtured instead of just…magically implanted.

Just as Dirthamen is about to raise his hand and give, what Solas is assuming to be, a very outrageous gift - something probably along the lines of being able to move through the world with complete and utter silence or the ability to blend into shadows, really something  _beyond the realm of practical in every sense, something completely earth shattering in its nonsensical uselessness to every day life_ , the door to Solas’ cottage bangs open and there, standing in all her mischievous and Solas-tormenting glory is their eldest sister.

“Mythal, she’s a child,” Andruil says as Mythal beams at them, “You have about a dozen of them. Have mercy. Look, even I’m being nice today. You missed it, but I gave her the most wonderful gift of eyes that can pierce through the souls of men.”

Solas, after some thought, has decided that Andruil’s gift is actually useful in that it would help his daughter learn to figure out the bullshit her many aunts and uncles spout at a baffling rate of  _infinity_. He’s not sure if Andruil has thought that through yet.

“I know she’s a child. She’s my favorite brother’s  _first_  child, in fact,” Mythal says as she rubs her hands together.

Sylaise and Jun both lean over the baby, putting their arms over her. Solas deeply appreciates the act, if not their gifts.

(Jun had, in a rare moment of complete and utter uselessness and idiocy that happen only once every few years but when they do happen they are quite spectacularly  _baffling_ , gifted his child with entirely vague and meaningless blessing of “strange but fortunate turns of events”.)

Elgar’nan, inspiring in Solas a warm flare of brotherly love that he hasn’t felt towards his elder brother in many years, steps between Mythal and the rest of them, hands held up, “Mythal.  _Don’t_.”

“You dramatic, it’s only going to be a  _little_  curse.”

“A little  _what_?” Ghilan’nain says, “Did you just say  _you’re going curse this child?_ ”

“It’s only going to be for a little while. Trust me. I’ve had a prophecy.”

“You’ve had some sort of fall and lost your  _mind_ ,” Falon’din gapes.

Solas is about to reach into the cradle, take his newfound child, and leave his own home to possibly live in the woods for the rest of his life, when Dirthamen touches Solas’ arm and shakes his head.

“If you run,” Dirthamen says softly, “You’ll just make it worse. And you’d add to the… _theater_.”

“And my other option is to let her curse my child,” Solas replies. “I’ve had this child for less than one day and I know, based on vague memories and social cues, that letting someone  _curse your child_  is generally a very bad parenting decision.”

“And you’d rather turn her life into one of Mythal’s  _theater productions_?”

Dirthamen, unfortunately, has a point.

Mythal pushes past their other siblings and coos down at the baby.

The baby is either incredibly bad at judging character - a gift that, maybe, one of his siblings should have considered giving her -, or a masochist in the making, because she gurgles a spit bubble and waves her chubby fists in what Solas thinks is a very cheerful manner.

“On your…let’s say eighteenth birthday you will prick your finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and fall asleep for the rest of your life,” Mythal says. “Until your true love comes and gives you true love’s kiss.”

Mythal then bends down and kisses the baby on the head and they all watch as blue-purple magic seeps into the child’s skin.

The baby waves a chubby fist and almost punches Mythal in the face.

Mythal laughs and rubs the baby’s cheeks. “You’re going to thank me. There’s one hunk of marble of a man waiting for you at the end of this and you’re going to  _love him_.”

“Fix this,” Solas says to Dirthamen.

Dirthamen looks baffled and shuffles over to replace Mythal in front of the girl. He just stares down at the baby before looking back up at Solas, “I have no idea how to fix that.”

“Oh forget it,” Ghilan’nain rolls her eyes and pushes Dirthamen over, rolling her sleeves up, “Just give her what you were going to give her to start with. I was going to give her a dog, but I guess I’ll give her this and save the dog for when she’s two or three or something.”

Solas, inwardly, gibbers with relief.

Finally a sibling with  _sense_. Leave it to the second youngest of them.

“Little niece, little nugget, little  _nuglet_ ,” Ghilan’nain sighs, “Your eldest Aunt is crazy but she does it from a place of probably good intentions. My gift to you is this - On your eighteenth birthday you may fall into an enchanted sleep, and while that curse may only be broken by true love’s kiss, you will not be trapped to your fate. You will not be helpless. I give you the gift of dreams. And through your dreams, may you guide the fates of others to become one with your own. And may one of those people you catch in the realm of sleep be the one you need to break your crazy Aunt’s curse.”


	262. Chapter 262

Sylaise' knitting needles even sound furious as she rants, somewhat unhelpfully, while - much more helpfully - knitting Solas’ new daughter a blanket for the rapidly approaching winter, which, according to Dirthamen, is going to be a very, very harsh one.

Ghilan’nain, much more immediate in her helpfulness, is preparing dinner for the three of them as Solas attempts to burp his new daughter, who was named by group vote as Ellana.

Solas was going to call her Ellana anyway, he’s not certain  _why_  everyone felt it necessary to democratize the act. No one ever did that for any of Mythal’s children.

He’s certain that he’s never had this much trouble attempting to burp a baby before. Ellana makes displeased  _nnnnnnng_  noise against his shoulder as he walks her around the first floor of his house.

“Well, you certainly aren’t going to ban her from my house. And I’m not removing every spindle from my house in order to keep her in a bubble. Do you know how important spindles are? To - not just my magic, mind - to  _living?_  And this girl is going to need to know how to spin thread. This is a survival skill. No niece or nephew or whatever of mine is going to go into this world completely unaware of how to spin thread because her  _other aunt cursed her_  for half-baked reasons that most likely have to do with  _dramatic effect_.”

Sylaise says the words  _dramatic effect_  like Solas says the words  _elder brother_. Distastefully, at the tip of his teeth like that would make the words any less vile or repulsive, and with a great deal of disbelieving vehemence that such a thing could exist.

And yet Elgar’nan still breathes and remains stubbornly older than him, so. There’s that.

“The spindle part won’t kick in until she’s eighteen, you have time. Once she turns eighteen we’ll just…keep them out of the way and never let Mythal near her again. Because Mythal would definitely kickstart her own curse by taking a spindle and poking Ellana would it,” Ghilan’nain says as she checks in on the pot hanging in Solas’ fireplace and then goes back to chopping vegetables at his table. “I’m sure if the seven of us got together and focused very hard we could break Mythal’s curse.”

“You assume Elgar’nan would help,” Solas says.

“Elgar’nan would help,” both of his sisters chide, giving him disappointed looks as he passes. “He did attempt to stop Mythal in the first place. And he even showed up to give Ellana a gift of his own! And it was quite a nice gift.”

It was the power to command armies, what in the name of the Fade is an  _infant child_  going to need the power to command armies for?

Solas keeps these comments to himself and focuses on trying to settle the fussy baby in his arms. He’s never  _wanted_  a baby to burp over his back so badly before.

“I’m thinking more about the endgame of the prophecy. What kind of man is marble?” Ghilan’nain asks.

“Jun was copper,” Sylaise points out, “Elgar’nan was fire, and Mythal was sea-foam.”

“That's different and it’s also bullshit,” Ghilan’nain says. “We need to think about who this man is and how we can get him here so he’s around when this happens so we don’t have to wait very long.”

“You want us to find a man made of marble sometime before the next eighteen years is up,” Sylaise repeats, “I’m sorry, littlest sister, are you  _insane_?”

“Andruil and I will handle it.”

Sylaise valiantly holds back some sort of comment, Solas can taste it.

Ellana, finally, burps and Solas lets out a sigh of relief he did not know he had been holding as he gently passes her off to Sylaise and goes to help Ghilan’nain with dinner.

It was very nice of them to burst into his house and commandeer it in the name of helping him with his new  _cursed daughter_. He appreciates it. Really. He’ll send a thank you note. Eventually.

-

Ellana dreams.

As she dreams, she walks around the ruins of the castle of her grandparents who she never met, in all of its half-restored glory and she watches the face of her father as he sleeps in the chair next to her bed and holds her hand and  _hopes_.

Ellana dreams and she remembers every single word that she’s wrung out of each of her aunts and uncles and her own father about this event.

They had all known it was going to happen.

Ellana knows every detail of what must happen in order for her to wake up next.

She must find the man of marble. The marble man. The wording changes, and Ellana is not sure what it is supposed to mean. Is he a man of literal marble? Is this a metaphor? Some sort of poetic language?

Is it his demeanor that is marble? His skin? His body? His voice? What part of him is marble?

Ellana dreams and there is power in dreams because you do not need to follow logic in dreams.

So Ellana thinks,  _I want to find a person_.

Ellana finds several people.

Ellana finds her brother, outside of the castle. Her brother, who is equally as cursed as her - though he has already lived through his portion of his curse, and through it has come to give her his own guidance, and she feels very sad that they had to lose each other again like this. She sees her once-cursed always-burdened brother sitting next to her favorite dog and she wishes that they would come inside.

Her father suffers with his hope very quietly and it would be nice for him to have a break from her unresponsive silence.

Ellana finds her Aunt Mythal, calmly drying herbs as she goes about her business, confident in her prophecies and actions.

She finds her aunts Ghilan’nain and Andruil, still tirelessly working in their efforts to find a man made of marble, a marble of a man, etc. etc.

She finds her Uncle Jun, fed up with the idea of finding something, and creating a man of marble for her. Ellana feels warm with this. But she does not think that this is where fate leads her.

She finds her Aunt Sylaise bitterly complaining to her uncles Dirthamen and Falon’din who scowl into their tea as they plot and think and try to out-clever their eldest sister.

And for a moment, she thinks, her Uncles see her too.

She sees her Uncle Elgar’nan, standing by himself at the top of a cliff, staring into the sunset. And he whispers, eyes narrowed, “You must cross the sea twice.”

Ellana listens.

Ellana dreams herself over the sea. Time passes differently for a dreamer. She lopes across the ocean in strange strides that leave her drifting and bouncing in the air for long stretches of time where the sun rises and sets dozens of times between the smallest movements of her fingers, and when the stars remain in place for her as she bounces over storms and waves.

The first time she crosses the sea, Ellana finds a boy and a girl who are bickering with a familiarity that makes her ache of her own brother. She sits with them, for a time - out of time -, and she gathers that they are nobles of some sort and the boy wants to be a knight and the girl is very sensible in that she wants a house of her own and none of that foolish adventuring business.

Ellana, unsure of what she is meant to find here, goes to cross the sea one more time.

She crosses again, further to the North.

And on a small island in water that is sometimes pale blue enough to see the white sand - pale enough to turn violet with bloodshed - and sometimes black enough to swallow ships, she finds a man.

He is much older than her, and he is definitely a man in the sense that he is older, wiser, and probably more aware of the world than she is. She would not call her brother a man. She would call this person one.

Though…Ellana is not sure if that this is the man made of marble. He looks big. He looks very powerful. And indeed, as she watches him swing a sword almost as tall as he is, and half as wide - which is very wide, the sword itself is larger than her own body -, he could be, metaphorically and poetically speaking, be said to have been carved from marble.

(He looks nothing like the man that her Uncle is carefully creating for her, she double checks this very quickly because in dreams you can be many places multiple times at once and it still makes sense.)

He does not feel like a man made of marble or a marble man or whatever combination of words any of her aunts and uncles felt like using at the time of the retelling.

But. Uncle Elgar’nan had told her to cross the ocean twice. And he is who she found when she crossed it the second time.

On the other hand -

This is a man fighting a war many oceans and leagues and lands away. What reason would he have to come and find her? What reason would he have to leave his war to wake her up?

Ellana watches this man for a very long time. She watches him suffer. She watches him laugh. She watches him think. She watches him heal. She watches him stare out into the horizon, the line of his mouth unmoving and flat and empty. She watches the wheels turn in his mind to some conclusion she isn’t sure on.

Ellana watches him for a very long time. She will come back to this man, eventually. If anything, because she is interested in why the First Child of the Sun would think to tell her to come here. Why did the Uncle Elgar’nan see  _him_?

But she has her own life to lead, her own battles to wage, and her own things to ponder.

Ellana leaves the man, who’s name she has not learned - they call him Hissrad, sometimes. Not all the time. Sometimes it is just numbers. And Ellana can learn numbers, but she does not like the concept of calling anyone a  _number_. Nor does she like to think of him as Hissrad - because spending this much time here in what she has learned is Seheron has taught her some of the many languages being thrown around like knives, and she does not like what Hissrad is supposed to mean.

She does not think that this man likes it, either.

Ellana leaves this man and goes back to the first boy and girl she found.

If the marble man, man of marble, marble of man,  _whatever_  will not come to Ellana, she will go to him. And she cannot do that asleep.

What can she do in sleep?

She can dream.

Ellana dreams herself standing over Maxwell Trevelyan’s sleeping body and she touches his dream with hers.

“So. You want to be a knight?”


	263. Chapter 263

“Why do your eyes do that, Uncle?” Ellana asks, looping her arm through one of Uncle Elgar’nan’s as she joins him on the cliffside over the ocean. “Where does the color go?”

“I am the Child of the Sun," Uncle replies, putting a warm hand over hers after a moment. “I see all that the Sun sees, I hear all that the Sun hears, I can touch all that the Sun’s rays reach. And so my eyes travel with the sun.”

She watches his clear eyes, almost glowing in the moonlight.

“Is that not dangerous?” Ellana asks. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore below them is loud and calming and one of Ellana’s favorite sounds in the entire world.

Uncle points towards the two moons with unfailing accuracy with his free hand, “Do you know what lights the moons at night and causes their shapes to change?”

“The sun?”

“Yes,” Uncle nods. “The Sun’s light continues to shine, even at night. But it is dimmer, and so my sight and hearing and touch is fainter here, now. But I am still able to sense things well enough to manage. I can tell you have questions. You always do.”

Ellana was told that when she was presented to her Aunts and Uncles, her Uncle Falon’Din gifted her with a mind that would always leap to new places.

Uncle Dirthamen, when she was older and capable of understanding more complicated matters, had told her in his soft dusty voice,  _a curse worse than Mythal’s, though I do not think the others see it yet. You will never be satisfied, little Ellana. My brother has put in you a void that you will fill with endless stars, and yet will remain dark_.

But, Ellana remembers, he did not apologize.

“What are you looking for on the other side of the world?” Ellana asks, because although his eyes are clear, she can tell they are moving. Her Uncle is seeking something.

She thinks she knows what.

“The same thing my sisters seek,” he says. “We look for this man of marble to bring him to you. We have less than a year left.”

Ellana turns at the sound of movement in the grass and she sees Mahanon and their dogs coming up the slopes to them.

A year left, and then sleep.

She has been aware of this intermission to her life since she was able to understand words; her life is full of opportunity and bliss and it is hers for the taking and she has been given many priceless gifts of magic and charm; everything she has and everything she is and everything possible to her is conditional and temporary.

Ellana, on her eighteenth birthday, will go to sleep. And she may never wake up again.

It seemed so far away, a year ago. Two years ago. Ten years ago. Seventeen years ago.

_You will never be satisfied, little Ellana._

Ellana is not sure that this is a curse, as she is fairly certain that there is no one who is ever really satisfied, at least, not for very long.

There is so much left for her to do. And she has a year to do it all in.

She holds out an a hand and Mahanon’s hand slides into hers as he stands next to her.

She and Mahanon are opposites in a way, she thinks, as she looks at his older face.

Ellana’s time has been made short by the impending and very immovable deadline set at eighteen.

Mahanon’s time has been stretched to snapping by the circuitous loop of fate and magic that he was suspended and lost in.

(And now they meet here, in the middle. She has had him with her for almost ten years and it is a pittance compared to the  _centuries_  he lost and gained and lost and gained for millennium, trapped in that ring. He has loved and lost and looked for her for that long without every wavering in the faith that she was worth looking for. And now they lose each other once more, into the abyss.

How was this not the curse?)

Their dogs pant, tails hitting heavy against her legs as they trot circles around them, delighted to be out at night to play and not at all tired.

“Do you see him?” Ellana asks, turning back to her Uncle.

“I see everything, Ellana,” he says.

It is not a yes.

-

“There is a man in my house,” Solas says under his breath, casting the words to the wind very quickly, “And he reeks of a curse. I need you. Please. He is here for my daughter.”

The wind snatches the words and the sounds before they even leave the safety of his lips and Solas hopes that whatever cursed this man does not catch onto them.

Ellana, thankfully, is in the forest playing with wisps that he had conjured for her earlier, and is most likely not going to be back for another hour or so when she gets hungry and finds herself wanting something to eat that is not berries.

Mythal and Andruil are there within moments, he wonders if they even received the entire message.

Andruil shakes her feathers back into hair as Mythal’s scales recede into skin and they are both staring at his house like they are going to dismantle it piece by piece and set it ablaze.

“I smell the scent of the fae,” Andruil croaks with a voice that hasn’t changed away from the vocal cords of a bird, “I smell the stench of forgotten things.”

“I smell the magic of the under hill and the dark paths,” Mythal rasps, eyes gold as she advances on Solas’ house, “I smell the stench of the Silver and Gold  _leeches_.”

Solas follows after them quickly before they possibly  _murder_  one of the fae folk and leave that blood on his hands for him to deal with.

The man stands where Solas left him, sharp faced and drenched head to toe in the magic of the things that live under the earth and in the shadows.

“Where is she?” He says, eyes roaming over Solas’ simple wooden table and the pots and pans and herbs and meats and shelves and great vases of water and grains. “I have been looking for her for over a millennium. I will continue to look for her until the end of time, I have given everything I have and everything I could take for her.  _Where is she_?”

Mythal’s hands glow hot and sharp and Andruil’s face begins to distort with magic.

“Why do you seek my daughter?” Solas asks, gathering his own more subtle magic at his fingertips.

The man’s eyes snap to him, cold and furious, “ _Your daughter_? She is not  _your daughter_. She is  _my sister_. Taken when she was a babe, fresh from our mother’s womb.”

The man sneers.

“All for some foolish, foolish promise. My mother and father did something very, very stupid to have her - a bargain struck over some magic  _leaf_  - and when the witch came to collect they gave her to someone else. Better to give her to strangers than a witch. But  _I never_  consented. She was  _my_  sister as much as she was their daughter.  _And I never forgot_.”


	264. Chapter 264

He looks like he wants to cry. He looks like he wants to snatch her and run away. He looks like he’s very tired and very relieved.

“My name is Mahanon,” the man says, folding his hands together between his knees, thumbs worrying the skin of his knuckles, “And I am your older brother.”

Ellana stares at Mahanon for a long moment.

“You seem very old to be my brother,” Ellana says. She is turning six this year. Mahanon is certainly not six. He’s not even  _ten_.

Mahanon’s face cracks around the edges and he presses his thumb into the center of his palm. He looks very frail. And scared.

He looks like Uncle Falon’din, when he is remembering the place he went to for a very long time. The place beyond places, beyond the Veil and beyond the Fade and beyond everything. Uncle Falon’din was lost there for a very, very long time. It changed him.

Ellana knows this because she was told this, and sometimes she’ll see her uncle pressing his thumb against the meat of his palm just like Mahanon is doing now, worrying at the skin, pressing to find bone. Like he’s trying to pin himself down, like a butterfly.

She considers Mahanon as he worries at his hand, teeth at his lip too, and she does what she does when Uncle Falon’din is trying to pin his palm down. She goes over to him and wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek.

“It’s okay if you are old,” Ellana says, resting her head on his shoulder as he freezes, “You must have gotten lost looking for me.”

Mahanon’s hands are very large and hurt a little when he hugs her back, fingers spread across her shoulders as he presses his face against her shoulder and breathes rough and ragged. Like he’s going to cry. Maybe he is not so old then, if he cries.

“I have been looking for you for so long,” Mahanon whispers, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know what they traded for me. I never wanted it. I’m sorry.”

Ellana doesn’t know what Mahanon is talking about, and she doesn’t think she ought to be asking right now, as much as she does want to know.

She pats as much of Mahanon’s back as she can reach as he clings to her, her shoulder starting to get damp as Mahanon cries and apologizes to her. He is a big person, but she can still feel his bones when she pats his back.

Ellana is reminded of the dogs and cats Aunt Ghilan’nain nurses and soothes, the ones she lets Ellana pet and hold as she tends to them to keep them calm. She could feel their bones like this, too.

“I was dying,” Mahanon whispers, voice rough from crying, “And our parents were very, very desperate. So they made a bargain with a witch for something to heal me. In exchange, the witch wanted a life for mine. Mother and Father would give her a child of her own. But they sent you away before she could take you. And the bargain was a life for a life.”

Ellana squeezes her hands on Mahanon’s back as he slowly pulls away.

“I have been looking for you for so long,” Mahanon repeats, eyes wet as he looks into her. “And now I’ve found you.”

Ellana takes his hands with hers, squeezing with as much strength as she can.

“Thank you for looking for me.” Mahanon’s mouth wavers into a tight smile.

His eyes are light, silvery. Like Uncle Elgar’nan’s at dusk. Magic, she thinks.

Aunt Andruil had tucked a small knife into the back of Ellana’s belt before letting her meet Mahanon. And Aunt Mythal had whispered into her palm and tossed the words over Ellana’s head, bathing her in a mist of magic.

Father kissed her on the forehead and circled her wrists with his hands, gently squeezing as his magic glowed around her skin.

Magic.

“Can you tell me what our name was?” Ellana asks quietly.

“Lavellan,” Mahanon answers. “We were Lavellan.”

-

Ellana’s birthday is beautiful. Aunt Sylaise scatters flowers everywhere. You can’t take one step without touching one. And Father makes her favorite breakfast and they all sit around the table together to eat and all of her Aunts and Uncles are there. Except for Aunt Mythal, for obvious reasons.

But Aunt Mythal had sent a message through the wash water and Ellana understands and has made peace with herself enough to be happy with that.

There is food, there is laughter. There are stories and songs. Ellana and Mahanon run through the woods and the hills with their dogs and they climb trees and Mahanon shows her more of the tricks he learned from the under-dark and the fair folk.

As she grows older, he tells her more of this time lost and taken. She is learning more about him every day. Maybe he tells her because she is getting older. Maybe he tells her because he is afraid he is about to lose her.

There are no spindles to be found on Ellana’s eighteenth birthday.

Father kisses her on the forehead as he tucks her in like she’s eight and not eighteen, and she does her best to try and memorize the lines around his eyes and the tired, fearful expression around his mouth as he retreats from her room.

He waits at the doorway, watching her, hesitant.

Aunt Mythal had a prophecy and she lay a curse. These things are much harder to avoid than you would think.

“I love you,” Father says. Like a question. Like he expects the universe to respond,  _oh, alright, you can keep her then._  Like this is supposed to be an answer to something.

“I know, I love you, too,” Ellana replies. “Night, da.”

“Goodnight.” He closes the door very softly. She can still see the shadow of his feet underneath the doorframe. He stands there for a very long time before leaving.

Ellana stays awake, staring at the ceiling. Both moons are out, but they’re mere slivers of their normal selves.

She hears the heavy wings before she sees the shadow of the bird at her window.

Ellana gets up.

A seagull stands on her windowsill with a spindle in its beak. And then the seagull is a woman.

“I was a daughter of the sea long before I was a dragon,” Aunt Mythal whispers, holding the spindle in her hand. Not holding it out, not offering it, just holding it. “I made you a curse and a promise, little Ellana.”

Ellana walks towards her destiny and holds out her hand.

Uncle Falon’din gave her a gift -  _may your eyes always be on the horizon, may your face always be turned towards the sky, may your mind always leap to new places_.

And Uncle Dirthamen had revealed it as the curse it was -  _you will never be satisfied_.

No one in the world is ever satisfied for long. Today was beautiful and heart-warming and full.

Ellana holds out her hand for the spindle, “I am not so much interested in this man you have seen, so much as the fate that puts the two of us on the same path.”

“Are you certain?” Mythal asks, not giving her the spindle. “You can walk away, still. Lay your head down and sleep and wake and sleep and wake. Play with your animals and dig up the stories of your brother’s scars, roam the forests and sleep in the glens. You can sing into the valleys and dance with stars. You do not have to take the fate I saw for you.”

Uncle Elgar’nan gave her the power to command. With the lack of an army or force to command, Ellana settles with commanding herself. She is the commander of her own fate, the guide of her own soul.

They have each given her something that they wanted her to use to keep herself safe and hale and steady.

Ellana spreads her fingers, “I will have the fate that was meant to be mine. I accept your curse, Aunt Mythal.  _Give me that spindle_.”

“Brave and ambitious girl,” Aunt Mythal says fondly, warmly as she hands the spindle over. “You leap to places the Sun and the Moon cannot reach. You dane to a melody no on else can hear. I think we have made you into something beyond ourselves.”

Ellana pauses with her finger over the end of the spindle, baffled as she blinks at her aunt.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ellana says, “You didn’t make me into anything. I did.”

On the night of Ellana’s eighteenth birthday, she pricks herself on a spindle, and goes to sleep.


	265. Chapter 265

June’s hand is mildly comforting on his shoulder as Solas gently folds Ellana’s hands together on top of the bedspread. Andruil and Sylaise smooth out wrinkles that aren’t and Elgar’nan gently weaves magic over the window to direct the sun away from Ellana’s face. These are all small details that will do nothing for his daughter.

Ellana sleeps, and nothing will wake her. Not the sun or the moon, not the baying of her hounds or the songs of birds, not the cold howling of the wind or the groaning of this castle she has never been in before.

“I do not want her here,” Solas says. She should be home with him, in the room she has slept in since she was a child and no longer small enough for a crib next to his bed. She should be in the room that overlooks the forest during sunrise, the room above his kitchen table. She should be in the bed that they put together and stuffed and sewed the quilts for.

She should be in his house, where her small patch of flowers underneath the front window grow rampant and wild and the dogs she raised since they were pups tear up patches of grass. Where her brother sits on a log and fletches arrows and chops wood and calmly watches her about her magic practice. She should be in the house where her feet are so familiar with the floor that they stir up no dirt or dust and her hands have worn the bannister down to smoothness and she has sewn curtains from fabric meant to be her dresses.

She should be  _home_.

His heart aches without words.

“This is where we were born,” Elgar’nan says, as softly as Solas has ever heard him speak. More like the dawning sun than he is familiar with. “This is where our parents truly shaped us and made us into who we are. This was the seat of their power. There is nowhere else in the entire world as powerfully protected as Skyhold is.”

“Nor anywhere as cursed and abandoned and melancholy,” Falon’din says, “I agree with Solas. She should be in the house where she was loved, not the castle we escaped and besieged.

“There is a magic in these stones and in the woods and slopes that cradle it,” Sylaise protests, “That is undeniable. We must not let our memories taint that. It is not this castle, it is not this land, that hurt and caged us. It is the ones who occupied it. And now  _we_  are the ones who occupy it.”

“If by occupy you mean make sure it remains empty and void,” Andruil murmurs, gently brushing her fingertips against Ellana’s cheek, momentarily holding her fingers by Ellana’s mouth to check for her breath. Andruil’s firm lips quiver for a second before she takes her hand away and folds her arms. “The stone remembers the blood we shed.”

“And we have been here for many days and it shows no sign of rejecting us,” Dirthamen points out as he takes Andruil’s place, resting his palm against Ellana’s cheek and gently running his thumb over her skin. He raises his other hand and begins to cast his own spells of protection. “We cannot assume. And we will always be watching. Ellana will be safe here. When all of us work together we are invincible. We are the Sun and the Earth, we are the Dead and the Living, we are the things grown and the things made.”

“Any news from our youngest?” Sylaise asks Andruil who shakes her head.

“Ghilan’nain continues the search, but she has seen and heard nothing.”

“True love’s kiss,” June angrily shakes his head in a sharp jerky motion, “And what is that to be? Who is that to be? Who in their lives is lucky enough to find that at eighteen?”

“There is more than one type of love,” Dirthamen whispers. And they all look to him. “For I love my twin, and I love the rest of you, and is that not love? I love the bears that I roam the forests with, and they love me as well. Is that not also love? Mythal said true love’s kiss, but she never said  _what sort of true love_.”

Solas’ heart nervously stutters in his chest and Sylaise takes his hand and squeezes it hard.

“Call Mahanon,” Solas whispers. “For if there is any person in this world who has truly loved her, it is he.”

Mahanon Lavellan, at six, walked into the under-dark and the realms of the Gold and Silver Kings in search of the sister he never knew, and he did not stop walking until he found her. It has left him changed and scarred and forever cleaved from reality in a way that cannot be described. But it is without question that Mahanon would endure that and more for his sister.

“And what of you? You will not try?” Andruil asks, tawny eyes sharper than the shape of talons she normally wears.

Solas has done his best to love his daughter. He loves her and he has done his best to do right by her.

But there has always been and there will always be a part of him that whispers,  _you are a wolf, and for a wolf to love is to devour and consume, the love of a wolf is a terrible and destructive thing to have_.

What if it does not work?

Better that Mahanon, cursed and changed and warped and devoted Mahanon, try first.

Sylaise’s hand is a snake’s vice around his as she hisses, “Now is not the time for your insecurity.”

“I will try,” Solas says, voice strangled with thorn and vine, “But Mahanon will go before me.”

-

“Do I know you?” Bull says to the woman who has fallen into step with him as he walks through the market square of Val Royeaux.

“No,” the woman replies, at ease and completely comfortable walking next to a Qunari mercenary. She is dressed in simple clothes with a walking stick that might also be a mage’s staff. There is a long-haired long-limbed dog at her side that trots easily next to her, quiet and tame.

“Did you want something?” He asks when she continues to walk next to him.

“Most people do,” the woman shrugs.

“Did you want something from  _me_?” Bull clarifies. He cannot place her face. She does not look or act like any spy from the Qun, so she cannot be new orders. It is possible that she could be a new ally that the Qun has sent for him to make contact with, but he doubts it. The Qun has not done something like that in a very long time. For the most part, they are content with his messages.

She could be an assassin. But she doesn’t have the feeling of one.

“I don’t know yet,” she says, tapping her walking stick on the ground as she looks up at him and shrugs again. “Now that I have finally found you, I realize I don’t know what to do with you at all.”

This woman is not an assassin. She is not a spy. She is not from any army, that much is obvious.

“You are a mercenary now?” She asks as he walks towards the city’s barracks, where the soldiers and mercs and other hands for hire usually hole up.

“Yeah, I lead a merc group. The Iron Bull’s Chargers. Did you need men for a fight? A guard?”

She could have found him by word of mouth.

But what does she mean  _now_?

Does she  _know_?

The woman stops walking, drumming her fingers on the head of her walking stick as she examines him.

“Not yet,” She says slowly. “Do you work for the highest bidder or the one most interesting?”

The one the Qun says to work for, he doesn’t say.

“Ah,” The woman smiles and Bull has a fleeting thought that maybe she can read minds, and if so, he’s fucked.  “You know what? Never mind. I’ll find something. I’m sure there’s something. There always is.”

Bull is about to ask her who she is and what the fuck she’s after but Krem call’s out -

“Hey, Chief! Got a job for us! But we need to move out by noon!”

And in the split second where Krem’s voice had gotten his attention, she’s gone.  


	266. Chapter 266

“Evelyn, I have a fairy godmother and she’s amazingly young and very pretty and also she’s provided me with a quest that I must complete with much haste,” Maxwell says as soon as he throws open the doors to the drawing room.

Evelyn is almost entirely certain that there isn’t anyone else here, so she isn’t the audience for some sort of prank. And she knows that Maxwell couldn’t have imbibed anything that would cause that level of delirium because they live in Ostwick, the most exciting thing either of them could get their hands on is…

Andraste, Evelyn can’t even think of one exciting thing that they could get their hands on.

“Come again?” Evelyn asks, putting aside the letter she was writing back to her teachers in the Circle regarding the terms of her studies for conditional home schooling. She’s only been back three months and not all of her study materials have been transferred over from the Ostwick tower and they’re already asking for preliminary results on her projects.

She hasn’t even gotten her good cauldron unpacked, mercy’s sake.

“I have a fairy godmother,” Maxwell says, “She came to me in a dream. She was very pretty, Evelyn. I think if mother wasn’t such a racist wretched  _mess_  of a person she’d have adored her.”

“You have…a fairy godmother. Who’s not human. And she came to you in a dream. And she’s very pretty. And she wants you to do things?”

Evelyn prepares a series of cleansing spells in one hand and sensory spells in another.

“She isn’t a  _demon_ , Lyn,” Maxwell rolls his eyes, dragging over an armchair to the desk she’d been writing at to sit next to her. “Come on. I’m a templar reject and aspiring knight, not a  _dolt_.”

“I never said you were,” Evelyn protests, “But you have to admit that sounds like demonic behavior.”

“Well now you’re the one who sounds racist, just because my fairy godmother isn’t human shaped she must be a demon and up to no good?” Maxwell raises an eyebrow.

Evelyn flushes, “ _You know what I mean_.”

“Gentle teasing, cos,” Maxwell nudges her leg with his. “Regardless. She’s set me about a task.”

“What sort of task?”

“I’m going to wake a cursed girl in the Frostback mountains in a forgotten castle,” Maxwell announces.

“A forgotten castle - Frostback? A  _cursed_  - ?” Evelyn puts a hand to her head.

Where does she even  _start_?

“As the one who generally comes up with slightly better plans and has much better time management skills and also the favorite who could more easily access our family’s coffers, I come to you for assistance to help me please my fairy godmother,” Maxwell says, clasping his hands together and fluttering his eyelashes like he’s four and cute instead of seventeen and baffling.

“I hate you,” Evelyn says, pushing her letters aside and rummaging about the desk for a fresh sheet, “Do you even know how wretched it is to cross from the Free Marches to Ferelden, Max?  _Do you?_ I don’t think you do. People  _die_  in those ships. And you know I get motion sick!”

Maxwell coos as he rests his face in his hands, leaning close and laughing, “But you love me so you’ll come?”

“I suppose I have to,” Evelyn huffs, “Someone has to keep you from walking straight into a ditch while you’re chasing stars.”

-

“I saw him,” Ellana says, startling Mahanon as he digs his fingers into the soil to pull out elf root  for Solas’ stores. He turns to where his sister is standing, looking up towards the bright blue sky.

He can hear the sound of the dogs playing around them, and the sounds of Ellana’s new friends - brought to them across the sea and land through the power of her dreams, the power of her force, her gift over the hearts of men -, and he can hear the sounds of life all around them.

(For a time, he did not think he would ever hear  _her_  again.)

“The man of marble?”

No one is exactly sure of the phrasing any longer, Mythal assures them that for once it was not truly important. It was more about the feeling than the way it was said. That they would understand once it had come to a gentle and clean close.

“The Sun told me I must cross the sea twice, I found him in the contested land,” Ellana continues.

“Tevinter?”

“Seheron. Close enough, I suppose.”

Ellana turns towards him, “He fights in a war. It isn’t his war. It has never been his war. I don’t know if he understands that. I didn’t, either, for a very long time. I think I’m just realizing it now that I’m awake.”

Something in his sister has changed during her years of dreaming. Such as something changed in him during his millennium of warped time.

They have been distorted into strange shapes of what they should have been.

“To bring him to me, I must find a war,” Ellana says. “And is it not most fortunate that of my many gifts, I posses the power to command? Mahanon. I do not even know if he is still there. But now I know where I must start. If he is anywhere, he will be in a place of conflict. I sense it.”

“Do you still have the power of dreams?”

“Not like my father’s,” Ellana’s voice grows distant as she turns her gaze back towards the sky. “But it seems that Aunt Ghilan’nain’s gift has stayed with me after waking, even though I never got a chance to try it before. I have tried to find him again. I only catch the tail of him.”

She stretches her hand upwards and grasps at something in the sky.

“But from the snatches of him I’ve gotten, I know. If I find a place with trouble, I will find him, too. I have only just woken, and already I want to leave. I am a greedy thing, Mahanon. I truly was the one who was meant for the under-hill and the rotten root roads.” Ellana looks down at him, teeth flashing, “I am  _insatiable_.”

Mahanon clicks his tongue and tosses his hair, “Sister, you are a beast and a brat and regardless of whether you were meant for there or here you would remain the same. Let it be as it has always been. Where you go I shall follow with relentless drive. Just try and escape me, I dare you. You are a million years too young to try.”


	267. Chapter 267

Ellana has raised that dog since she was eight. The fact that the dog is still alive, three years into Ellana’s cursed sleep is amazing. Almost all of the dogs she has in her possession came from that original dog, who has been loyal and loving and nothing but gentle and true to her since Aunt Ghilan’nain first deposited her as a squirming pup into Ellana’s arms.

That dog has caught rabbits, fetched her kills, chased off unwanted attention from large animals, dug up surprise treasures, licked her fingers in the mornings, lay down at her feet in the evenings, followed her on her midnight walks, run with her in the dawn dew, licked her face when she cried, and lay her head in Ellana’s lap when Ellana was scared.

For some reason, it is the realization that her dog has spent three years - which is basically  _forever_  for a dog - not knowing where Ellana is or why Ellana hasn’t come to see her and bring her treats and tell her she’s a good and lovely girl and stroke her soft velvety ears and hold her beautiful slender paws. It is this, as Ellana trails after Maxwell and Evelyn through the castle that is and isn’t familiar to her - she imagines that Skyhold in reality is a touch different than the Skyhold she interacts with as a dream - that tugs at Ellana’s heart the most.

She wants to linger there, with the dog that’s still waiting at the doors, sad that she can’t stay with her. Myrrha was old when Ellana went to sleep, slow to go up and down stairs, more easily tired and all around slower than before. Ellana can’t imagine that Myrrha is capable of navigating Skyhold’s numerous stairs and uneven pathways to get to where Ellana’s body lies.

It’s taken her three years to cross the sea twice, to watch a man being carved and gutted like stone through wars and deaths and skirmishes and lies and orders and changes in directives, find a boy with a heart like gold, a girl with a mind like a diamond, and haul the latter two across the sea and over plains and fields and mountains and forests to her.

Ellana, as a dreamer, has been both across the sea and doing those things, and here as well. Time and space are strange for a sleeper. She can be in both places at once, and neither. She watches everything from a place out of time and logic. She has watched a dozen sunsets minute at her Uncle’s side and she has also stretched one night watching Evelyn and Maxwell on the hold of a ship on rocky seas into agonizing weeks fearing she’d just dragged two wonderful people into their deaths for her sake.

She follows them as they ascend the stairs. Awake they can’t hear her, but she’s drilled the layout of the traps and surprises and short cuts and faults of Skyhold into them so many times that they’ve started murmuring them in their sleep.

Uncle Jun meets them in the secret corridor that connects the main hall to the library, calmly falling into step with them, broad and gentle face serene as he matches Maxwell’s stride.

“Uh.” Maxwell looks at Evelyn. Evelyn looks at Maxwell.

“She’s  _your_  fairy godmother,” Evelyn says.

“Yes, but she talks to you more than she talks to me,” Maxwell points out, darting nervous glances at Ellana’s Uncle.

She has tried reaching out to her Aunts and Uncles, her father too. Her brother, of course.

Perhaps it is because of their magic, but she was unable to enter their dreams, their minds. Ellana knows that she could not enter her father’s dreams because his method of dreaming is different from hers. She understands why she couldn’t reach him.

Mahanon, she couldn’t reach because of the remaining affects of his curse. Probably.

The others, she can only guess at.

Uncle Jun, for example, is made of some different sort of stuff than the rest. The others always say he was shaped out of copper and the veins of the earth, that he cracked into existence, pushed out from some mountain or deep underwater trench. Ellana doesn’t believe a single bit of it, but she knows that his magic is vastly different from the other’s.

“I’m hoping one of you is her true love, personally I hope it’s you, the woman,” Uncle Jun says, waving a hand to disarm the traps ahead of them as he leads up into Skyhold’s towers. “No offense, but you look smarter than your companion there. Though you are quite handsome.”

“I don’t know about that,” Evelyn says blinking rapidly, “Um. But I suppose we won’t know until we try.”

“Is being your fairy godmother’s true love incest?”

Evelyn, without hesitation, smacks Maxwell upside the head so hard that he almost falls face-down. Ellana deeply approves.

“I don’t even know where to start with you,” Evelyn says.

Uncle Jun laughs.

Father is standing next to her bed when they walk in, holding her hand. He looks grayer than she remembers. More faded. More tired.

It hurts her heart almost as much as seeing Myrrha at the door.

She wonders where Mahanon is. Perhaps with the rest of their hounds. Or maybe tending the house while Father is here.

“I sense the touch of familiar magic on you,” Father says, gently squeezing Ellana’s hand before putting it back down on the bedspread and stepping back.

“Alright,” Maxwell and Evelyn glance at each other nervously, “Uh. I don’t think it’s going to be either of us, honestly. Evelyn and I have done a lot of talking about this and. Uh. Have any of you guys tried kissing her?”

Father slowly turns to Uncle Jun.

Uncle Jun studiously avoids eye contact.

“Yes,” Father says, voice cracking down the middle like stone, “We have. No. It obviously did not work. That is a line of thought we explored within the same week as her falling asleep.”

Uncle Jun crosses the room and clasps Father’s arm.

“No one doubts your love for her. This curse is specific,” Uncle Jun says, switching to the ancient language of their people, “For she would not wake for Mahanon or you, or any of us. And there is not a single person in this world who would say that neither you nor he loved her more than life could challenge.”

“Alright. Well. If you guys couldn’t wake her up with your true love I don’t think we can for sure,” Maxwell says.

Ellana knows that, too. She’d just been hoping that Evelyn, clever Evelyn, would be able to use her magic to possibly pick a hole in the curse. And brave and good Maxwell would be quite good company and protection. Ellana did not think either of them would be able to wake her with a kiss - though she does love them very much, after all this time together who couldn’t love them?

She thinks that they love her too.

Ellana goes over to the window and looks down, down, towards the gardens, and she hears the sounds of many dogs. In the gardens among the trees she sees a blotch of color that must be Mahanon and several moving colors of what must be Myrrha’s many pups and grand-pups.

She can hear them barking, and she wonders if Mahanon has to carry Myrrha up to the gardens every time. Or if he just leaves her in the lower courtyard. Her heart pangs.

“Who’s dogs are those?” Maxwell asks. “Are they guard dogs?”

“They can’t be guard dogs, Max,” Evelyn says, “The one at the gate just followed us. And she was very old. Are they hunting dogs?”

“A bit of both,” Uncle Jun says. “They were Ellana’s.”

And Mahanon’s, Ellana protests, unheard.

“Well, have any of  _them_  been up here to give her a kiss?” Maxwell asks.

Father and Uncle Jun look at him like he’s insane.

Ellana is also doing that.

The three of them (Ellana unheard) repeat in various tones of incredulous dumbfounded confusion, “The dogs?”

“Yeah,” Maxwell says, squinting down into the garden. “What about the old one we saw on the way up here?”

“Clever idea,” Evelyn says, “There’s no truer love in this world than that of a dog.”

“That’s absurd,” Father says immediately.

“Well you haven’t tried it, so you wouldn’t now,” Evelyn replies, “Maxwell, help me carry the dog up the stairs.”

“On it,” Maxwell says, and the two go jogging out the door and down the stairs back to Skyhold’s ground floor.

Ellana stares at them, and then at her Father and Uncle, and then in a flash it next to Myrrha at Skyhold’s main gates.

She looks down at the dog, old and quiet and waiting, and she looks back up towards the tower.

And you know what?

They might be right.


	268. Chapter 268

The pearls are kinder and gentler than her teeth. That's something he notices as he pulls his sword out of a dead Tevinter’s torso and shoves the body aside with his foot. It’s a weird thing to notice, but Lavellan dressed up for a fancy party is also weird and Bull’s head hasn’t really gotten around it fully. It is something that his mind keeps going around and around in circles over, or maybe keeps going over and over like an oyster making a pearl.

Like the pearls around her neck. A string of gentler teeth and pretty worries.

(“There is not a person in this world,” de Fer had said, raising the strands out of a velvet lined box and putting them around Lavellan’s neck, “Who would question the legitimacy of a woman wearing pearls.”

Lavellan, sulking and irritated with the whole pretense of caring about Orlais, had smiled approvingly when the pearls touched her skin. It is probably one of the few moments two of the most lethal women in Bull’s life will ever come close to amiable, and that is probably for the better. At least, for Bull’s better.)

Bull takes in the area around them, the grass wilted and dried and crackling, the empty fountain, and the even the blood of the dead bodies - Orlesian guards and Tevinter Venatori alike - as the blood slowly washes itself away, like a black wave towards Lavellan’s bare feet and rushes up her legs, disappearing underneath her skirt without a trace. Swallowed into her infinity, condensed by her gravity.

“Trevelyan paid good money for your shoes,” Bull says. Lavellan looks down at her feet, pretending to just notice that she’d tossed them somewhere as she flexes her calves and digs her toes into the once-green and damp grass and now withered dirt.

“And you all thought she wouldn’t have anything to do at this fancy party,” Bull hears Varric say to Pentaghast from somewhere ‘round the corner of the garden. Everyone else is around there, Bull just went after a few runners. Lavellan was already waiting, pearls and teeth ready.

Lavellan shrugs as she kicks a foot, releasing a rustling sound of dead grass, and then points at the guards, “Someone paid good money for them, too, no?”

The dress she’s wearing is simple to the point of mockery. As if someone had just grabbed a bedsheet and thrown it on her and tied it down with a rope. The pearls are nice. It looks like she crashed into a sail and washed on shore. Bull thinks that might be on purpose.

Lavellan’s eyes glitter black in the night. Her pearls glitter too.

“I should go back inside,” Bull says, “I don’t think I’ve made enough people hot or bothered.”

Lavellan’s glittering eyes blink out of sight once, twice, and then she says, “From where I was watching I think you were doing a plenty good job of it. In fact, I would say you were doing too good of a job, playing the buffoon and the provocateur.”

“Did I make  _you_  hot or bothered?” Bull asks. The answer is no. But he asks anyway.

“I am an ocean, I am never one and I am always the other,” Lavellan shrugs. “Speaking of hot and or bothered, I saw Evelyn climbing a trellis. There were a few people who looked very bothered by it. I think a few tempers might have even gotten close to overheating.”

“And?” Bull asks, watching as Lavellan raises a lazy hand an waves towards him.

“And what? She hasn’t come back yet,” Lavellan says. “Go back inside. Every time I look at any of you wearing those… _things_  I feel as though my kin are laughing at me in our forests and loudly proclaiming me a fool as the waves mock me. The only thing good about what you’re wearing is that I don’t have to actually see it in the dark.”

-

“You are idiots who have forgotten the truth of yourselves,” Lavellan says. She does not think she had understood that about the people of the land, the creatures isolated in their own little minds and bodies, until this very moment.

Above them there is a rift in the sky. Lavellan feels its magic, but she cannot feel it, herself. It is the domain of the creatures of the air and of the ether, and it is not her concern.

Around her the air is cold. The sand is cold. The stone is cold. It can be colder.

Threads of her slowly trickle down deep into the earth that has not forgotten.

Lavellan watches humans and elves and dwarves kill each other, and for her the only difference is that. Some are Wardens, some are Venatori, some are Inquisition soldiers, some are from Orlais or Ferelden. Borrowed blood.

But the earth remembers what the rest have forgotten.

Lavellan wishes that Dalish were here. Dalish would be able to explain this to clearly. But Dalish cannot be here, because the desert sands are hostile to her. Because Dalish would surely wither here, as certain as if Dalish had been thrown into the sea.

Varric has asked her if she would be alright to come with them. As if anyone could stop her.

You do not stop an ocean from going anywhere. And as far away from the sea as she is, that does not mean she is any less ocean.

(“Why wouldn’t I be?” She had replied, sitting herself down firmly in the back of the supply wagon that would hold their water. Just because she would be fine did not mean she wanted to suffer unnecessary discomfort. She staved off the dryness and wearisome silence for as long as she could.)

It is true that there is no river, no stream, no lake, no pond for her here. There is no snow to melt, no grass or trees to pull from. There is no vast expanse of  _home_  here.

But there was once.

All of this came from the salt of her mothers and fathers, all of this was buried under the weight of their forests and shaped by the pound of their feet.

The earth remembers this. Lavellan cups her hands at her ears and she can still hear the sound of waves in the wind curving through the sandstone, and she can still taste a lingering touch of salt the farthest curves of her lip.

And most importantly -

Lavellan raises her arms and pulls, unravelling the shape of herself as she shifts to accommodate for more mass.

The blood comes. The blood and salt and iron and ocean within her mix companionably enough. It is not perfect, it is not pure, it is far and distant from its origin, but it knows deep within the coils of itself.

They are all made of the same things as she. They have just forgotten that.

There is an ocean in her, and that violet wave that tossed her into being is part of them, too.

Lavellan knows that for the creatures of flesh who can still use magic this is forbidden, the manipulation of blood.  _Malificar_ , it is called. A sin, a crime, a horror.

But for her - unbound by their rules, by their stigma and taboos - it is stretching a limb she hadn’t had much use for.

This is a desert, true. But it was once a forest floor for her kin, it was once their home and playground.

Lavellan shifts and changes, pulling blood - salt and water and iron - towards her as she dissolves into a wave that slides and gushes through the stones of Adamant.

She can feel the Iron Bull and the touch of her ocean on him. She can feel the flow of liquid where there probably shouldn’t be any. She can feel Varric’s stance and she can feel even the lightest dance of Sera’s feet as she dances over Adamant’s walls.

Lavellan can feel all of them, except for Evelyn and the few others who were sucked into battle with the Archdaemon. That is a problem for someone else. That is not a problem she can or will fix.

Lavellan rises, twisting and braiding parts of her expanded body into the smaller shape of herself to walk along the ramparts. She sends many of these images over the stones to gather more water and salt and to drown whole the ones who would seek to forget and bury the ones who need to be remembered.

She throws the ones who annoy her out of her way, not paying attention to where they land. She kicks legs out from under torsos and she slams her elbows into throats. She forms shapes that curve around necks perfectly.

She is an ocean. And the tide has just come in.


	269. Chapter 269

“Leave him?" Ellana repeats baffled, looking dumb struck as she stands stunned in the middle of Mahanon’s abandoned room. Vacant, really.

Mahanon has been missing for months, now. Things are…not looking good.

“Leave him?” Ellana repeats again, and Bull braces for impact, because there can be no words or actions following that aren’t heavy, blunt, and dangerous. “ _Leave him be?_  Do you know how - how ridiculous that sounds? My brother hasn’t been heard from in two months, Bull.  _Two months_. I don’t care if he’s under cover or on some sort of important task for Leliana that requires utmost secrecy. He hasn’t been heard from in  _two months_. No check-ins, no clues. He’s just  _vanished_. And the Inquisition’s official stance is  _leave him_?”

“Ellana,” Bull doesn’t quite agree with the Inquisition’s stance on this one but he can understand, “He was so close to figuring out where all the missing people are. If he’s in deep cover we can’t risk this. There are almost fifty missing people all tied to this case.”

“Fifty  _one_ ,” Ellana says. “I will not leave my brother. If he is in danger then I will go to him. I will run, walk, jog, scramble, drive, rocket, fly, or launch myself to him if need be. Bull, this can’t seem right to you. There’s something off.”

“I know there’s something off, but Mahanon is one of the best agents out there,” Bull says. As such as he wants to agree with Ellana, he also knows that this is important.

Fifty missing people. Dead or alive, no one’s quite sure. More possible bodies. A trail that always goes cold.

There is something wrong, something dangerous and deeply wrong and Mahanon has always been the Inquisition’s best set of eyes and ears. No question.

If there is anyone in the world who can solve this case or find the crucial clue, it’s Mahanon Lavellan.

“My brother needs me,” Ellana says, voice wavering, “My brother needs his friends. And the Inquisition says to  _leave him_?”

Before Bull can say anything Ellana’s arm dashes against Mahanon’s desk and upends a thick heavy box at the corner of it, sending it crashing to the ground, contents spilling out.

“Leave him!” Ellana snarls, “Look at this! Do you know what this is?”

Bull knows. He doesn’t close his eye, he doesn’t look away. He owes her this much at least, for standing with the Inquisition on this instead of with her.

“This is his love for me,” Ellana begins to violently pull out drawers and folders, tossing letters and postcards and pictures out onto the floor with the contents of the spilled wooden box. “Our entire lives, woven together. This is the vast sum of our bond, our lives, combined. Every birthday, every stupid and insignificant note, polaroids, road trip maps, ticket stubs. This is our shared life and you think I don’t know what my brother is capable of?  _Leave him?_  This isn’t right. I know it in my heart and in my soul that my brother is in danger and the Inquisition tells me that I am wrong? That I am to stand aside? I will not, Bull. And no one is going to stop me. There is something better than my brother, and that is him when he and I are working together. You think Mahanon is an unstoppable force? Then my will is an immovable object.”

Ellana’s eyes are defiant and furious and stubborn.

“Look at our lives,” Ellana’s arms turn out around them, “Look at all of this and look me in the eyes, Bull. Tell me I don’t know my brother. Tell me that I don’t know what he is capable of. Tell me to ignore my instincts, the instincts that brought me to you and brought us this far. Tell me to  _leave him_. I dare you.”

Bull says nothing.

And Ellana, righteous in her fury, pushes past him and out of Mahanon’s room and into the hallway.

“That could have gone better,” Pavus says.

“You could have helped,” Bull says. Pavus was there for about five minutes before Bull had to drop the final verdict.

“If you think that adding more people into the mix could soften the blow then I think you’re losing your touch,” Pavus replies. “You want to add insult to injury? Her partner and her best friend telling her to abandon her brother? Go ahead. Go after her. I estimate that with the way she’s looking she’ll subdue anyone who tries to stop her from storming into Evelyn’s office and screaming up a storm with a single glance.”

“You understand why the Inquisition took this stance, right?” Because Bull does. Ellana is right in that it feels wrong, but he can understand it. It’s reasonable.

“It doesn’t matter if I understand it or not,” Pavus says, walking past him and bending down to try and fix the mess Ellana left in her wake, “I’m not the one who’s opinion matters on this one. Are the two of you going to be alright?”

Bull is going to be in for one hell of a silence when he gets back to their place tonight. Ellana might not even come back at all, but stay here at Mahanon’s.

“Yeah,” Bull says. Because he knows that she’s upset that he took the Inquisition’s stance. He also knows that she knows that this situation isn’t quite right. What upsets her isn’t that he agrees with the Inquisition over her exactly, it’s that despite the fact that he agrees with her he’s going against his own instinct to side with the Inquisition.

There is nothing Ellana hates more in this world than someone who ignores their own truth.

Eventually they’ll be alright. Mahanon will resurface and Ellana will still be mad, but they’ll be alright.

“If you say so,” Dorian shrugs, gently putting papers back into the heavy box. Bull slowly kneels down to help him. “Do you need a ride back to your place? I imagine that she’s going to be taking your car.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Bull says. “Pavus?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing here?”

They’ve left agents under cover for longer. Mahanon’s ben gone for four to five months without contact before. The stakes just haven’t been this high.

“I hope that we are,” Pavus says softly, “Andraste, I don’t know if we’re right, but I very much hope that we are. And if we aren’t, I don’t think there’s anyone who’s going to be able to save us from the fall out.”


	270. Chapter 270

“I’m telling you - the guy was a complete stranger, he just came up to me and gave me this,” Varric says.

“He just walked up to you and just gave you a bag of drugs?” Bull says, rubbing his temple. “Right. Okay. And then?”

“And then he left and I was talked by three cops,” Varric replies. “What do you mean and then? I’m here in handcuffs.”

“A fact that Pentaghast is deeply conflicted over in the Captain’s office,” Krem says from his desk, typing something very quickly on his laptop and for once looking like a proper officer of the law. “I don’t know if she’s deeply vindicated to finally have you in custody or about to burst something because she knows you’re innocent and she has to let you go.”

“See?” Varric gestures with his cuffs, “Your boy here knows I’m clean. Come on, Tiny. We’ve known each other for forever. Do you really think I’d get caught up in drugs?”

“I’m sure that if you were you wouldn’t get caught because you’re not a sloppy amateur,” Bull says. “But you were literally arrested with a bag of cocaine in your hands, Varric. There were witnesses. It’s on camera.”

“And the guy who  _gave_  me the drugs and ran?”

“No positive ID yet,” Bull says. Sera and Skinner’ll get it eventually. They’re very, very good at finding evidence and getting it out of the hands of people who want it hidden. “But I’m pretty sure we’re going to have to hold you, unless you’ve got something else up your sleeve.”

“You know how I get the one phone call?” Varric says.

The doors to the precinct fly open, “Release the dwarf.”

Bull smothers a laugh into his palm as Ellana strides in with all the confidence of someone with a special sort of obliviousness to the power, authority, and charisma  they posses can have.

“I called your wife. Should I have called a lawyer? Maybe. But I thought it’d be faster if I, you know, got that ace out of my sleeve fast. Get it? Ace?”

“It’s a little joke because I am queer as hell,” Ellana says, holding her hand out for the keys to Varric’s handcuffs. “I’m very disappointed in all of you for not uncuffing this poor, innocent man sooner.”

“Laying it on thick, huh, Boss?” Bull says, tossing her the keys.

“It’s Varric, if I didn’t I wouldn’t be doing a proper rescue,” Ellana replies.

Grim and Rocky are laughing from the break room. Krem shakes his head, grinning.

Dalish rolls her eyes fondly.

Cullen, from behind his literal mountain of paperwork, sighs very deeply.

Sutherland and Voth look poleaxed at the fact that the Commissioner of Police is personally here to bust Varric out of what looks like an extremely straight forward case.

“I called Mahanon,” Ellana says. “He’ll be your lawyer if this ever goes forward. I don’t think it will, which is probably the only reason why Mahanon agreed.”

“Nice,” Varric grins, patting Bull’s desk and leaning forward to give a conspiratorial wink, “See? Two for one. Get out of jail  _and_  top lawyer.”

“Lavellan,” Pentaghast is standing in the door to Evelyn’s office like the wrath of her Andrastian god. “What is going on?”

Evelyn, behind Pentaghast, looks like she’s ready to call it a day and hit her head against a wall until she’s out for the count and therefore out of this situation.

“I’m letting him go, he’s innocent.”

Pentaghast slowly turns to look at Bull, like this is his fault. “She was his phone call, wasn’t she?”

Bull shrugs a shoulder, “Two for one.”

“Mahaon’s his lawyer.”

“It’s a good call.”

Pentaghast turns back to Ellana.

“He was caught, literally, red handed with a bag full of  _cocaine._ ”

“Who even puts cocaine in a burlap sack, Cassandra?” Ellana says. “He’s innocent. Just check the camera footage. I’m sure we’ll find whoever is trying to set Varric up in no time. We just have to focus on finding that person first. Aside from asking the general questions of who, what, where, when, and why I don’t think we need anything else from Varric. I’m sure he’s had a very trying day and could use a cup of tea and a nice lie down. Let’s go.”

Varric gives them all a cocky salute as he follows Ellana out the precinct doors.

Before the doors can close, Ellana pokes her head back in, “Also, this weekend all of you are coming to my place because Cole’s learned how to use the barbecue and I’m going to show him off.”

“Nice,” Stitches says, “Extra corn, because Dalish eats it all as soon as it comes off the grill.”

“I do not. Grim takes a least half of it before I can get to it.”

Grim closes the shades in the break room.

Pentaghast pinches the bridge of her nose.

“You know if you complain she’s going to toss it up higher, right?” Bull tells her.

“I know,” Pentaghast grinds out.

The flagrant flaunting of procedure in their precinct, and really any of the precincts Ellana has friends on, is not unnoticed.

It’s just that no one cares because -

King Alistair of Ferelden is her gaming buddy and they go to the dog park together at least once a week.

Senator Briala of Orlais is part of her book club and they go on nature walks and plan hiking expeditions all the time.

Champion Hawke of Kirkwall is also one of her gaming friends and they also do DND and dinner together every other week.

Ambassador Josephine of Antiva takes tea with her every month.

Vivienne de Fer of the College Circles frequently calls her to gossip, complain, and debate scientific theory.

Warden Commander Surana of Ferelden sends post cards.

Bull is sure he’s forgetting others, but the point is that Ellana Lavellan is stupidly well connected and she didn’t mean to get into that position but she is. Bull’s actually used to secret service and various other organizations popping in or hanging around his house.

They’re good people. Sometimes when they’re off shift Bull’ll call them up for drinks. He invited some of them to Cole’s adoption party.

“Tell Ellana that I want rib-eye,” Pentaghast says and then strides out of the room with an enviable amount of dignity, grace, and stiff-shouldered authority. “And I want baked potatoes. The good ones with the ham.”

“Got it,” Bull says. There’s no doubt that Ellana probably had that planned, anyway. “Anyone else have any requests?”

“Bourbon,” Evelyn says, “And for this shit to stop happening in my precinct and move into Herah’s or Maxwell’s.”


	271. Chapter 271

“Servis,” Ellana drawls, arranging black backed cards in her hands, pausing to take a sip from her martini, “Servis,  _don’t fuck with me_.”

“I swear to you, Inquisitor,” Servis sounds as nervous as he should be, “I swear to you. It was for profit, not for any real moral or national cause. I don’t even  _do_  anything for them. I just move money and occasionally weapons. I don’t deal in the drugs or the flesh. I swear it, you can check my books. I’ll bring them to you myself. I have records.”

“I know,” Ellana says, humming as she flicks a card down on the table. “I know that, Servis. I know that you move various antiques and artifacts, I know that you’re little more than a glorified money launderer. The most exciting thing you’ve ever handled is probably something painted back when people thought lead was a good paint ingredient. I’m the Inquisitor of Thedas, Servis. I  _know these things_. Don’t be boring, Servis. I have it on good authority that being boring is the quickest way to death where you’re from. It’s your turn.”

“I can give you patrols. I can give you names. Locations. Drops. I can tell you where the money is going, even. Don’t turn me over to them, Inquisitor. Please.”

“I have the patrols. I have the names. I have the locations. I have the drops. I have the trails,” Ellana says, “Bull. Anything there I should actually care about?”

“Nope,” Bull says from the bar as he inspects the pretty and useless glass bottles full of shitty liquor. Well. Shitty in that you could get shit-faced on it, but you probably wouldn’t be having a very good time about it.

Bull mentally flicks through orders and locations. They’re in the middle of starving out the last of the Venatori to the west of here. They’ve already pinned down Lucanus and are just waiting for the right time to strike - Leliana is sure he’s about to fuck something up and Rutherford wants to send their people in at that exact moment for minimum effort and greatest impact.

Macrinus is long gone and the rest of his people are either in the process of being absorbed into Lucanus’ section or being sent back to Tevinter or directed out of the Approach. Or dead.

“Rutherford’s got our new boys at it,” Bull says, “I mean. I guess you’d only pay attention if you were pretty damn bored and needed to stretch your legs.”

“And there you have it, Servis. Crassius. Can I call you that? Can I call you Crassius? Let’s get familiar, Crassius. I want you to talk to me. I want you to be honest with me. I really do.”

“I am being honest with you, Inquisitor. Please. I have more - I have. I have favors. I have people who owe me things in Tevinter. I can pull strings, I can bring you more information. I can direct the coin and the artifacts towards you, if you want. I can send the supplies meant for Corypheus to you.”

“That’s the thing, Crassius,” Ellana taps the edges of the cards against the table as she leans forward into the light, “Why has Corypheus dedicated a not insignificant amount of his forces to  _you_? You’re a money launderer. You handle large sums, but overall not that much when you think about it. And you’re out here? In the Western Approach? Why would Corypheus put you here, hm? And these artifacts he moves around? Bull?”

“Nothing we can figure out,” Bull says, pulling down a bottle of vodka. It’s dusty and sticky. He puts it back immediately and grimaces as he looks around for something to wipe his hands with.

Sera’s right, he should start wearing some gloves. It’d match the whole intimidating mobster look and keep him from gross-liquor-bottle situations. “Some nice desks. A couple of clocks. A super uncomfortable chair.”

Bull glances towards the card table and Crassius Servis looks like he wants to say something about the true value of said uncomfortable chair and how it’s older than dirt and more precious than gold. Pavus had said as much but with tones of extreme distaste.

Cole is a very, very quiet card dealer standing at the card table, drawn into the shadows, hat pulled low over his eyes as he runs his thumb down the edge of the cards. Neither Ellana or Bull are quite sure why Cole insisted on coming along for this visitation, but he’s doing pretty good so far. Bull figures the kid might just want some more experience in the field. He’s been on his own for most of  his time as a member of organized crime.

Ellana looks like she’s caught something between her teeth and is about to rip it loose. Her growth as a mob boss outpaces that of the Inquisition as a genuine underground organization by leaps and bounds. Bull isn’t sure if he’s impressed, deeply intrigued, or nervous. Maybe it’s all of the above. His girl’s hit her stride and she’s got this shit on lock down.

“And that’s what I’m very curious about, Crassius. What is so special about these clocks and chairs and tables and bureaus and little toys that Corypheus considers losing  _you_  an actual  _los_ s?” Ellana tosses her cards aside. It’s not as though they were actually playing a real game. Crassius hasn’t even looked at his hand.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know, Crassius. Don’t tell me you aren’t in on it.  _Don’t you fuck with me_. I am not someone you fuck with. You can fuck with my soldiers and my spies, you can fuck with my informants and my muscle. That’s what they’re there for, honestly.” (Bull wishes he had that on record because in about five minutes she’s probably going to forget that and try and do something over the top by herself and maybe an hour from now she’s going to attempt to throw herself into harms way for  _no reason at all_  other than that she doesn’t want to bother anyone else with it.) “But  _don’t you fuck with me and waste my time_. I have a country to take over and an empire to rip out of Corypheus’ hands. This is not a fight you’re going to win, Crassius. I am stronger than you. I am smarter than you. I am more powerful than you. And I am infinitely patient enough to know that I’m going to wring out every secret from your weak little body without fail. Start. Talking.”


	272. Chapter 272

“You’re back!” Evelyn is just as startled to see the proprietor of the Black Emporium swinging down from stacks of books as she was the last time she was here. “And you look the same as before! Did you forget something?”

“No. Did you?” Evelyn replies, and suddenly - as though the realization of what she’s doing has just happened now - feels extremely awkward about maybe having taken a joke too seriously. She holds up a basket, “I did say I’d be back and we’d have some tea. I. Um. Should I have sent a message ahead? I brought Dorian.”

“Hello, charmed. Probably. It remains to be seen.”

Ellana blinks slowly, “You…came back to have tea with me?”

“Yes,” Evelyn says, “Was I…not supposed to?”

Ellana had seemed very excited about the idea the last time Evelyn was here, and she had looked so terribly lonely and it may be something of what some people would consider a  _waste of time and effort_  to come back to the Black Emporium without any real business aside from tea and chatter, but at the time Evelyn thought that based on the sad and quiet and nervous look on Ellana’s face it would have been the least she could do.

“You meant it?” Ellana says, sounding terribly small for someone who’s going to outlive the rest of the world. “I mean - you remembered? And you meant it?”

“She’s here isn’t she?,” Bull says, “You got anything good for making vitaar around here?”

“Probably. Check around that-away with the rest of the cosmetics,” Ellana says offhandedly gesturing vaguely behind her, blinking confusedly at Evelyn. “And you brought Dorian Pavus, Altus of Minrathous, preeminent researcher and developer of time-space warping magics? I -  _are you sure_ , absolutely and completely  _certain_ , that you hadn’t forgotten something and now you’re doubling back to make it look less awkward by sweetening me up to get it?”

Evelyn turns around to look behind her. She’d thought bringing Dorian would be fun because Dorian, in general, is always a little party of his own and she thought if things got awkward Dorian’s propensity for destroying and plowing down awkward social situations would bail her out.

Dorian beams, “You’ve heard of me.”

“Oh, yes,” Ellana replies, “I mean. How could I have not? I’ve been following your research for the past few - how does time work again?  Um. I think it’s years. Years are a normal amount of time? I think? Anyway I’ve been following your research since you published that paper concerning a timed-delayed rapid compression spell to enhance fire based magics and I’ve thought you very brilliant. I mean, the way you applied the same theory from that paper to the current use of time distortion fields? Wonderful. It’s a great work around for the complex issue of overlapping mass.”

Dorian’s eyebrows might as well have become part of his hair.

“That was my first paper and I’ll let you know now, out of surprise and awe that you actually read that piece of utter useless shit, that I’m flattered that you think I could link those two studies together considering that when I polished up my latest piece I was literally doing it by the seat of my pants with death breathing down my neck.”

“I can tell,” Ellana nods sagely, “Crude but extremely effective, especially if you polish it up a bit more. It’s not the work around  _I_  came up with, but I think it’s much more efficient.”

“Wait,” Evelyn’s brain catches up with the conversation as she holds up a hand to stop this from rapidly spiraling into a  _discussion_. Because three mages from three different schools talking theory is a discussion and she hasn’t even put down the tea basket, “You’ve solved time travel?”

“I’ve had all the time in the literal world,” Ellana replies, “If you name it, I’ve probably played with it for a few years before getting bored.”

Dorian pushes past Evelyn, grabs the nearest chair and sits down in it, “Enough pleasantries. We’re talking theoretical mathematics and philosophy. Evelyn, if you’d have told me sooner that this is what was waiting for me at the Black Emporium maybe I wouldn’t have been so damn slow about getting here.”

Evelyn grabs her own chair and drags it to where Dorian is as Ellana quickly goes to get a chair and table, quickly casting some spells to increase the light in the room and float over pens, papers, some journals, and a couple of plates and jars.

“If  _I_  had know this is what I could’ve been getting the entire time you’d have never gotten me out of here the first time,” Evelyn replies. “Maker - Bull said that your hobbies were knitting and embroidery. I brought you  _wool_. I could’ve brought you my unsolved thesis project.”

“I  _do_  like to knit and embroider,” Ellana protests, “He wasn’t  _wrong_. He just…neglected to mention my other hobbies.”

“You’re useless,” Dorian calls out towards the stacks where Bull and disappeared. Bull’s arm appears from behind a shelf and he flips Dorian off.

“The last time I was here - before the Inquisition - I spent three days discussing the relevance of architecture and war tactics to a culture. Topics I didn’t think  _either_  of you two would care about.”

Evelyn and Dorian stare at Ellana.

Ellana shrugs, “The Iron Bull is the only person I’ve met in the past two centuries capable of holding an interesting conversation regarding the trends of society’s foreign policy and aesthetic movements. He’s a man of many depths and frankly I’m extremely excited to have him back in my shop again. And he’s brought me the two of you and I feel like I don’t even know where to  _start_. Bull, are you good back there? I’m going to start in on them because. Well. It’s been almost five centuries since I’ve had a live body down here willing to sit down and talk  _theory_.”

“I’m good,” Bull says, “Do I still have a tab?”

“Does he still have a tab,” Ellana rolls her eyes and whispers, “He just takes things for free and pretends they’re on a tab. As if I cared about the stuff he takes. He’s the only one who’s had an interest in most of it in this  _decade_. He’s practically taking out my garbage for me.”


	273. Chapter 273

Ellana’s god is not particularly involved in her life. That is probably the reason why, when Mahanon chose the path of Sylaise, and her fellows went towards Andruil or Ghilan’nain, or blessed themselves with Mythal’s branches, or burned themselves into Elgar’nan’s image, Ellana goes into the quiet of the woods and finds a gone-dry river and closes her eyes and whispers the rarely spoken words of devotion to the Dread Wolf.

Ellana does not want a god to watch her, to breathe over her shoulder. She does not want a god to follow in her wake, nor does she want to step into the left-behind footprints of one. She has no desire to chase or be chased by a god. Ellana has no particular need nor does she find any sort of attraction to a life that is dedicated at all or in part to something that is not her efforts.

Jun, maybe, would have been a good god to her. Mahanon chose Jun’s wife, after all. And the two of them have always gone as a pair in all things. Mahanon learned how to fight up close with knives, Ellana learned how to fling spells in the shapes of arrows. Mahanon learned how to stalk through the underbrush and Ellana learned how to fall down from the branches above.

But Mahanon’s choice to follow Sylaise is not something she can parallel with a choice to dedicate herself to Jun. Ellana is capable with her hands. One is not Dalish and incapable of doing even the most rudimentary tasks. But she is not an artist, and whatever pride she has in the things of her creation is not matched by any ambition to do better, be better, become the best. She is no artisan.

(And Mahanon is no healer, no sage, no elderman. No. That is not the way of Sylaise he has found within himself. There is more than one way to dedicate your life to a god, and Mahanon  has reached straight for Sylaise’ thorns and stingers. Sylaise will love her brother.)

Jun could have been a good match for her.

But Ellana is not content with  _a good match_.

So Ellana goes into the woods and she finds a dead and waiting river. No river ever truly dies. It simply…waits. It watches. It bides its time.

Dead rivers are slow arrows. One good rain and they become wide swaths of heavy, powerful, unyielding force that wash away forests and animals and villages and farms. One good rain and they become death, a noun, instead of death, an adjective.

She finds a dead and waiting river and sits in what used to be its deepest beds, where the silt has dried up and the rocks are covered in moss and grass and the bends have been worn down and blurred into the forest around it.

She draws a line on the back of her hand, raising bright blood, and she drops the worn tooth on the leather cord like a pendulum for dowsing.

“I put myself in your jaws and test your patience,” Ellana whispers to the forest, to the god behind and under and around and inside of it. “I put my neck at your teeth and I am your amusement. I do not seek a boon. I do not ask for favor. I ask to borrow your ear, to catch your attention, when it so pleases.”

The Wolf appears, black and many eyed and looming, a shadow that is not a shadow.

The wolf’s tooth at the end of the leather cord swings up, the cord taught, as it points at the Wolf.

Ellana picks a pair of eyes that are closer to eye level for her.

 _At this very moment, your brother anoints himself in the ashes and oils of my sister’s hearth. He chews her poison-leaf and he dies a small death for her,_  The Wolf says,  _At this moment, your kin bathe in my brother’s light and burn his sigil into their skin. They drink the water of my sister underneath her sacred branches. They kiss and weave feathers in vows of silence, they burn bones and dried skins to my brothers. They fletch arrows with their hair and carve promises into the shafts for my sister. They sacrifice into great forges and band copper around their arms for my brother. They eat the raw hearts of the creatures they have caught and sing gospels of devotion for my sister. Why do you not join them?_

“My place is not at any hearth. It is not in a bower. It is not at a forge. It is not at a table or a doorway. It is not in a bed or an aravel. I will not join them. I cannot.”

 _At this moment, your kin place themselves at the mercy and favor and whims of my brothers and sisters. They will be rewarded for it._  The Wolf pauses, many eyes blinking and not-blinking, closing and half-closing and not-closing at all.  _I have nothing to give you. And I have no particular interest in taking anything that you have._

“Then don’t,” Ellana says with a faint shrug.

The Wolf examines her with his many eyes.

 _At this moment, my brothers and sisters are watching you and wondering why you put yourself to me. They would gladly take you. You would please them with your love and loyalty_.

“Knowing that I put myself to the Wolf first?” Ellana replies. “If they favor me, so be it, but I put myself here and not there.”

 _At this very moment I look into you and see you. There is nothing. You are nothing._ The Wolf laughs. It is not unkind.

Ellana imagines that the kindness of gods is vastly different than the kindness she has grown up with.

“I want to leave,” Ellana says plainly. In every story all the gods respect and appreciate plainness. “I want to leave. I want to become something.”

 _At this moment, there are at least three of my siblings who are considered patrons of change and transformation. They would take you_.

“But there is only one who is a god of leaving,” Ellana replies, “There is only one who is a god of change and challenge.”

 _At this moment you think those are exciting and wonderful things, little nothing-girl,_ The Wolf sighs,  _you are to young to know better._

“Let me learn then,” Ellana replies, “I want to leave. I want to leave the safety of the aravels. In my heart, I do not leave them. But in my mind and soul I am looking for something that cannot be found here in the safety of gods and halla.”

The Wolf’s eyes glitter, and a great wind rustles the leaves of the forest, moving branches and Ellana blinks, squinting against the light that momentarily cuts across her eyes. When she opens them the Wolf is a brilliant light with many eyes and the cut across her hand is gone.

 _Go North,_  the Wolf says,  _Stay with your family for the night. When morning comes gather what you must and venture forth. Let us see what sticks to you on your quest so that you may become something, little-nothing._

“Thank you,” Ellana says, lowering the cord as it grows slack and the vision fades. “Ma serannas, Fen’Harel.”

 _We will see_ , the Wolf muses, image disappearing along with the sounds of many laughing voices.  _We will see, little-nothing, if you remain thankful outside your walls of halla and gods._


	274. Chapter 274

Ellana counts out coins in her palm as the Wolf stretches out next to her, spreading the pads of his toes out as he yawns. There isn't much to count. Not enough for a place to stay, even if she could find someplace that would take her coin without overcharging or putting her in a stable. Maybe enough for some old bread or something stale, if she’s being honest.

Based on what she remembers the nearest clan is not near enough for her to trade with.

 _Is it time for the little nothing to go home?_  The Wolf asks, settling down, folding his forepaws in what Ellana considers a very obnoxious manner as some of his eyes blink and some of his eyes remain half-closed. The Wolf, she has found, is a particularly lazy god in that only shows up when he’s bored and has nothing better to do but also can’t take a nap because apparently he’s too bored for that, too.

“It’s time for this little nothing to get a job,” Ellana replies, closing her fingers around the meager coins she has left before carefully slipping them into her purse and hiding it in her tunic. “It’s been almost twenty years, Wolf, I’m not turning back.”

 _Twenty years of nothing has made you more of a nothing_ , the Wolf replies, laying his head down on his paws, eyes drooping closed.  _And what shall my little nothing do now? Tell fake fortunes? Shovel manure? Do other people’s laundry?_

Again, Ellana would need to find an employer who would not be particularly cruel or unfair or dangerous.

Twenty years, almost. She’s learned some things.

There is a town, a village really, a few miles to the south of where she is currently. She could make it there within a day and a half. The baker there was friendly to her, she could maybe find a job there for a time. Or maybe he could direct her to someone who would have a position.

 _Twenty years and the little nothing has not learned that there are other ways of making a way in the world_ , the Wolf says. He’s pretending to sleep when she turns to look at him.  _Am I the god of household chores?_

Ellana has found jobs as a thief and a spy. She has found jobs with mercenary bands. She has been an impromptu healer and filled the place of a squire at times. She has tended horses and she has tended trench foot. She has been a saboteur and a listening ear and a lying tongue.

She’s learned to be many things, and at the end of it - nothing at all, which suits her needs fine.

(Ellana has gone back to her clan in her travels. And of course, she has attended the Arlathvhen. Ellana has felt a deep sorrow at leaving and returning to her clan and the people she loves who are still there. But it is not enough for her to stay.

The sorrow is that whenever she returns the more she sees that things are still the same. And the thought of being the same as she was twenty or so years ago horrifies her beyond rational thought.)

“And where would I find a way in the world that involves the things for which you are known in the middle of the Fereldan countryside, my god?” Ellana replies as she checks the straps on her bags and pulls her furs tighter around her shoulders.

 _Twenty years and she has not yet learned the simplest of things,_  the Wolf huffs,  _Ask and you may receive, no? There is a band of mercenaries two hours west of here. They are short on healers._

The Wolf has lead her into dire straights before, and tight situations, and precarious messes.

“And are these mercenaries amiable to having someone like myself among them?” Ellana asks. “Am I endangering myself?”

The Wolf laughsand blinks himself out of her sight.

Twenty years, Ellana has learned many things. The Wolf is a dramatic shit. But he suits her needs fine.

Ellana goes West.

-

“Hey, Boss?”

Bull glances up from the ledger he’s looking over. They need supplies, but they also need time. Time they might not have. The latest skirmish’s gotten five of their rear support down and two of their best sappers out of commission. Not including Stitches and Dalish being run raw on resources. Stitches doesn’t have what he needs to get their guys back in fighting shape and Dalish’s study has never been healing. She’s doing what she can but she’s out of her depth.

They’re nowhere near close to where they need to be. There are villages between here and there but he doubts they’d have the kind of supplies he needs to get his Chargers up and moving.

The thought of losing even one of his people sits uneasy in his gut. The contract is filled, but it means nothing if he’s going to lose people on it. He can’t take more contracts without  _people to actually do the work_.

(There are other reasons why it churns so hot in his stomach. Those are not reasons he can think on right now.)

Rocky - thank  _fuck_  he didn’t lose Rocky - jerks a thumb over his shoulder, “Woman came off the road, lookin’ for work. She’s an  _archer_. Like  _Dalish_.”

Rocky wiggles his eyebrows for effect.

“Right,” Bull says, “An archer. Anyone tell Dalish?”

“Tell Dalish what?”

Bull glances to his side and sees Dalish coming up to him looking like death that’s been left out in the sun to warm up for a few minutes.

“Woman came off the road, looking for work,” Rocky says, pointing behind himself, “She’s an  _archer_. Like  _you_.”

Dalish immediately heads off in the direction Rocky had been pointing.

Bull slowly raises to his feet, “Sure, Dalish,” he calls out after her, “Don’t ask me my opinion or anything. It’s not like  _it’s my name_  on the contracts or anything.”

Dalish flips him off as she clears a way through the rest of their guys with sheer force of grumpy fed-up  _tiredness_.

Bull follows at a more sedate pace.

Dalish and the woman Rocky mentioned are quietly talking as Grim hovers near them. The woman got a thick black pelt across her shoulders and heavy leathers. He can see two daggers on her, and she has a bladed staff.

Dalish turns to him when he approaches and says, “She’s not a healer by trade, but she’s got more experience than I do. Sign her or I walk.”

Dalish would never walk. She’d take one of the horses and ride off.

“I don’t carry spare contracts on me,” Bull says, “Go find someone who does. Do I get to know the name of our latest Charger?”

“Ellana of Lavellan,” the woman replies, nodding before holding out her hand, “I can set a bone and stitch a wound. I don’t need much and I don’t look for trouble. Often.”

Grim’s lip twitches upwards at the added  _often_  and Bull takes her hand, grinning, “The Chargers look for trouble  _always_ , so I hope you’ll get a taste for it. Welcome aboard, I guess.”

Ellana’s teeth flash, “Getting a taste for something has never been my problem. Thank you for having me.”


	275. Chapter 275

Bull watches, and with a laughably plain and simple efficiency that Bull would almost consider elegant if it weren’t so brutally, up until recently dead Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan impales a Venatori spell-slinger on the sharp, magical blade of her arm, lifting the struggling corpse up as the poor fuck lights up from the inside and turns to ash.

It reminds Bull of the corpses around the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but instead of swallowed by lyrium, the body cracks with the poisonous light of the Anchor and crumbles as the blade reforms into an arm and then a hand.

“Are you satisfied watching? Much has changed, if so,” the Inquisitor says, extending her left arm downwards as the green-white light of it twists, catching strange smoking wisps. “Where is Corypheus? I feel him near.”

“He must feel you, too, Inquisitor,” Pavus muses, casting out a wall of flame that sweeps over bloody stone and ashes like a lazy wave, “Because what little I saw of him was beating a very quick retreat. Perhaps he has another appointment?”

“Or perhaps he flees like a  _theif_ , caught,” Lavellan sneers, “Cut him off.”

“So you can cut him up?” Sera says, body coated in electricity that makes her blonde hair float around her face like a cloud, “Done and done.” Sera raises a hand to her mouth and blows a sharp whistle before raising her other hand in the air, waving her bow, “Pin him.”

Bull glances upwards as he hears a series of sharp  _twangs_  and watches the black cloud of arrows sailing overhead.

Bull looks forward and he sees waves of dead.

And then Pavus raises a hand, a wash of purple rippling out from the spell-circle that glows to life at his feet, and then there are real waves of dead. Black shapes, twisted and charred and empty.

“Well?” Lavellan says, “Are you going to watch?”

Bull rolls his shoulders and walks around her, “It’s about the anticipation.”

Sera bursts out laughing, and then she jerks forward, a blur that makes Bull’s skin prickle.

“Oh yes,” Lavellan drawls, a presence that screams  _danger!_  at his back, “I deeply anticipate seeing my reflection in his eyes as I reclaim what is rightfully mine. I’m almost  _dying_  with it.”

“I meant for  _him_ ,” Bull says.

“Oh do go on,” Pavus calls after them as Bull lazily clears a path for the Inquisitor. Not much to clear. Either they see him or they see the glow of Lavellan’s spectral left arm and they scatter like roaches. He’s basically a throat-slitter here, double checking that whoever’s lingering is dead. Not much of a fight.

More like a cooling down exercise after breaking in here.

“You’d think,” Lavellan muses, “That after my return he would have thought of moving bases away from here.”

“He probably hoped it wasn’t true. Inquisition propaganda or something like it,” Bull replies, stepping aside once he sees Corypheus, fenced in by Sera and her Jennies. A few Inquisition soldiers, too. He sees Rocky and Harding.

“Corypheus,” Lavellan sings out, gliding past Bull with the intensity of a serpent from the Amaranthine Ocean that’s scented chum, “ _Corypheus_. You have something of mine,  _little thief_ , and I’ve come to claim it.”

“The Aberration,” Corypheus draws himself up as unnaturally tall as he is. Bull thinks that even a few weeks ago he would have felt fear just thinking about this kind of moment. But now, all he wants to do is bask in this. In her. “Once more, you have come close, but fail.”

Lavellan doesn’t break her stride, but instead raises her left arm, the light of it burning brilliant as reaches towards Corypheus and Corypheus counters by holding out what Bull recognizes as the Anchor. Lavellan’s Anchor.

Lavellan’s  _arm_ , magicked and bound and preserved and strapped to Corypheus’ own misshapen limb.

“Come for this?”

“No. I’ve come for  _this_ ,” Lavellan hisses and closes her fist, yanking back. Corypheus stumbles as the Anchor on Lavellan’s cut off arm sparks to life, bright green-white and crackles with energy. “You know not what you wield and you use it like a child and a club: unseemly, inelegant, ineffective, and ultimately pitiful. You do not know true power and your dreams are dust.”

Bull watches, he wonders if this is what it was like at Haven. That first time, when Corypheus and his Venatori and his Red Templars first came down on them. Is this what she faced?

Is this what killed her?

Bull watches as the two fight. Each of them pulling in their own direction as the energy from the Anchor buzzes into a tangible thing that makes Bull’s bones shake.

Something gives. Something always gives.

And there is a flash and a wave, and a ringing in Bull’s ears. It takes him a moment to come back to what’s going on.

Lavellan stands, her left arm brilliant and more tangible than ever, and Corypheus has fallen to his knees.

“You are weak,” Lavellan sneers, “And I will enjoy showing you just how weak you are.”

Bull hears the roar of the damn dragon before he sees it.

“Run thief,” Lavellan snarls as Corypheus gathers energy around himself, curled over the empty husk that was once Lavellan’s arm, “There is nowhere you can run from me. I will burn you out of this world until there is nothing left of you, not even silence.”

Bull steps forward but Lavellan holds up her fist for them all to hold position as they literally watch Corypheus escape from underneath their noses.

“We had him,” Sera says.

Lavellan’s eyes are on the dragon.

“Not yet,” Lavellan says, “He’s lived this long. And it’s not for lack of executioners. We need to starve him. Pin him down, corner him, and choke him into submission. When I kill him I want it to be once and for all. I will not tolerate a  _repeat_.”

“You don’t want another  _you_  on your hands,” Pavus says from behind them as he comes to join them. He smells of recent fire and smoke, even from over here. “Understandable.”

“There will only ever be one of me,” Lavellan says, “And when this is over there will be nothing of me and perhaps that would permit this world to know an echo of peace. Gather our forces, we return to Skyhold. Send a messenger ahead, Sera get your Jennies talking. I want to know the location of every single Venatori agent, sympathizer, and ally in Thedas by the time I get back to Skyhold. I’m going hunting.”


	276. Chapter 276

“I’m sorry about your staff,” Dalish says, sitting next to Ellana, leaning her own staff against her shoulder. “Can it not be repaired?”

Ellana holds two separate halves of her staff, trying to answer that very question. It’s not the staff she set out with at the start of her journeys many years ago, no. That staff lasted a little over a year. One of the many things she’s learned is how to pick a staff for heavy travel.

The one she holds in her hands she’s had for about five years. It’s been damaged and broken between then and now, but she’s been able to repair it before.

“The core is damaged,” Ellana says, tilting the end with the focus to examine the center. “It won’t channel the same if I try and piece the halves together.”

She’d had a similar break on her last staff. She’d shaved down the blunt end to make it shorter and grafted an iron grip to put the two halves back together, but her magic became jittery. There was a strange interference and her spells had strange edges. Useable, but uncomfortable and unknown in a way that would be dangerous to rely on. If she were as she were now, surrounded in people she could trust to handle themselves and not turn on her, maybe she would have stuck with it to figure it out.

“It is a shame to lose such a fine instrument,” Dalish says, stroking her thumb over the dark green cloth of her staff’s grip.

Ellana nods at it, “Cedar with moonstone?”

Dalish’s lips tilt up, “Talking shop with me, da’len?”

“Da’len?” Ellana’s eyebrows raise, “I wager I’m not that far behind you in years, sister. Come tell. Cedar with moonstone?”

“Cedar with moonstone, but with quartz added for continued clarity,” Dalish corrects. “The cedar core is also minimal to the staff’s design. The magic mainly relies in the focus.”

“Better aim,” Ellana nods, “Normally the archers I know keep the magic in the staff itself for greater flexibility. Long range?”

“Long range,” Dalish confirms and then shakes her head nudging her staff and rolling it a little, “You’re the only one who believes me when I say I’m an archer and this is for aiming.”

“You’re one of Dirthamen’s,” Ellana replies, “Why wouldn’t I believe it?”

There are some who turn to Andruil or Ghilan’nain for the hunt, occasionally Elgar’nan or Mythal. But Dirthamen is the secret keeper, knower of the hidden paths, discoverer of lost places, patron of the lost. Dirthamen’s hunters are persistence predators. Their school teaches them to hunt their quarry across nations for decades. Ellana would hate to be the target of someone who took Dirthamen as their patron god for hunting.

“This is why we need more of ours out in the world,” Dalish muses, patting Ellana’s knee, “Or on the Chargers, specifically. Aside from the staff are you alright? Nastly blow.”

“And my good staff here took the brunt of it,” Ellana shakes her head. She’d used barrier magic and reinforced the air with ice, too, but the morningstar still broke through and cracked her staff. She’d thrown herself back in time to avoid taking damager herself - aside from some scratches that were easy enough to heal. “I will need a new one.”

“We’re two days North from the closest town,” Dalish furrows her brow, biting her lip, “And our next mission is four days west. We can ask the Chief if he’ll let you borrow some people to go with you and then meet up with us.”

“It would take too long and there’s no guarantee that this town would even have something compatible with me, let alone people willing to sell it to a Dalish savage,” Ellana points out, tapping her fingers on the worn wood. It’s risky but she could try and sing-shape the wood together. It’d be slightly better than making a new grip and putting the halves together with that, but she’s never been the best shaper and she’s never tried this before.

But if she does not work, there is no money.

 _The little nothing has even less than when she started,_  Ellana glances to the side and sees the Wolf in the distance watching her,  _Come. You did not ask, but you will receive anyway._

“I’m going to try and find something to bind it with,” Ellana says to Dalish, “I’ll be back.”

Dalish nods, “Good luck. Do you need anyone to go with you?”

Hopefully the path the Wolf puts her on doesn’t lead her too far in over her head.

Ellana waves her hand, “It’s fine.”

The Wolf is gone by the time she reaches the point he was at, and has reappeared farther in the distance.

She follows as the Wolf leads her farther and farther away from the Charger’s camp and into the woods.

“I haven’t seen you in a few months,” Ellana says to the forest. “Have you gotten bored with your other entertainments?”

The Wolf appears at her side, brown-gray with eyes that remind her of fresh grass,  _Perhaps._

 _“_ And where are you leading me to?” Ellana asks.

 _A place where you can get a new staff,_  The Wolf replies, eyes changing into dark moss,  _You need that staff to work, you need a staff to travel. You must travel to find something so that you are less of a nothing than you are now. If you become less of a nothing than you are now then you will become something, and something is always very interesting_.

“That’s perhaps the closest you have ever come to saying that you are fond of me,” Ellana says, “And where am I to get a replacement staff in the middle of the woods?”

The Wolf ignores her, trotting ahead and Ellana resists the young and childish urge to say  _your ass is fat and it wiggles when you walk_ to get him to reply. The Wolf is, after all, doing her an unasked for favor. Her god is rarely so considerate.

He remains silent for the rest of their walk through the woods, as underbrush gets thicker and wilder, as the trees get larger and older. Ellana is getting worried that she won’t make it back to camp before they leave tomorrow morning, but the Wolf stops, eyes changing to a honey-gold amber as he lowers his head and paces a circle.

 _Here. Dig_ , The Wolf says.

“Dig?” Ellana blinks.

 _Yes,_  The Wolf repeats,  _Dig. Breaking your staff did not break your understanding of language. Dig._

“You might have told me to bring a spade,” Ellana says, slowly getting to her knees and casting some protective spells on her hands before she starts moving leaves and twigs and rocks to the side.

 _I might have,_   _I did not_ , The Wolf trots off to the side and lies down, yawning.  _Dig._

“Yes, yes,” Ellana says.

The sun is almost gone, Ellana is actually  _inside of a hole_ , and the Wolf is napping like an actual pup complete with his tail over his nose, when she finds what she guesses the Wolf brought her here for.

Ellana scowls and stretches up on her toes to peer up over the edge of the  _grave she is supposedly meant to rob_ , “You didn’t tell me I’d be stealing it straight out of the hands of a dead person.”

The Wolf’s ears flick towards her and a few of his eyes lazily blink open - the rest remain closed or eerily wide and unfocused, or maybe hyper focused on something - and the Wolf says,  _Does it matter? They no longer have use for it. You do. Besides, it was mine to begin with. I do not see why I cannot give it to whomever I deem needs it most._

Ellana lights a flame in her palm as she carefully crouches down to inspect the staff. All that is left of its previous owner are bones. Even the customary wraps have mostly dissolved into nothingness.

Some sort of black wood - it’d need cleaning to figure out what sort. A bladed end, she’ll need to see if that needs replacing. She can barely make out some pattern engraved into the wood. The focus, though. She can still sense dormant power int he focus. It is a ring with bladed ornaments hanging off of it. At the top of the ring there is a small wolf’s skull.

“Unsubtle,” Ellana says, but she carefully takes the staff out of the dead person’s hands anyway.

The Wolf is right. She does need a staff.

After a moment’s consideration Ellana places the broken halves of her own staff with the body before climbing out of the hole and starting to refill it.

“Thank you, I am sorry I have nothing better to give you or respects to pay to your name,” Ellana says to the skeleton as she returns it to darkness, “Forgive me, though I have not earned it.”

Ellana stands over the freshly packed grave and examines the staff closer. The weight and balance seem good. A little long, but that’s the bladed end. She can feel dormant power within it, sleeping, quiet.

 _Well?_  The Wolf asks, trotting up next to her, tail swishing a little,  _Give us a spin._

Ellana rolls her eyes and holds the staff out, balancing it in her hand and slowly feeding it some of her power.

The staff wakes up with a vibrant white-green that bursts through her and knocks the air out of her lungs.

The dirt and rust and corrosion on the staff dissolve away instantly, and the wood warms in her hand, Ellana feels the staff’s magic braiding around hers, through hers. Weaving.

 _Does it suit_? The Wolf asks.

“You know it does,” Ellana replies, breathless as she holds the staff closer to herself, inspecting the new details uncovered by its reawakening. Iron bark, for certain. There are jade rings around the base of the focus - the rings on the focus are also have jade on the non-bladed sections. Ellana taps them with her fingernail and they let out a clear ring that seems to ripple through her ears, her bones, sharpening her vision for a second. There are all sorts of sigils and runes etched into the staff.

Enhancement, clarity, guidance, protection from back-lash, protection against consumption, energy storage, circuits for greater channeling efficiency, barrier spells, preservation spells, energy rejuvenation spells, focus guides. No elemental effects aside from a cooling and heating regulation as well as a basic grounding near the base.

No curses or traps from what she can tell, which is really the most important part here.

“It suits, as you knew it would,” Ellana says, and she lights a simple flame at the top of it. The fire is clear, pure, and brilliant. “Now I need to get back before they shred up my contract and I lose out on all that money I need to become something interesting.”


	277. Chapter 277

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This AU is inspired by Spines (podcast). I'll be steering this in a different direction but there is soooo much good good worldbuilding I'll be borrowing for this.

She gasps herself awake, choking. There’s some sort of strange filmy substance covering her, sticky and tacky and her body feels weak and heavy. The sticky substance is warm but rapidly cooling and her skin prickles - exposed.

She looks up and her eyes see many things.

Eight faces that she knows instantly, each face attached to a strange emotion that tangles with love and hate in her heart: Jun, Sylaise, Elgar’nan, Mythal, Andruil, Ghilan’nain, Dirthamen, Falon’din, Sylaise, Jun.

As she pushes up onto the palms of her hands, sliding and almost crashing back to the floor she knows and understands one more thing.

They are all naked and covered in blood, all of them poured out onto the floor like they were just pushed out of the womb together fully formed.

And - including herself - there is a tenth among them.

Where?

Another strange tangle in her heart. Love. Hate. Fear. Longing. Loneliness. Betrayal. Hope.

But who is the strange ninth?

She turns to look at the other eight again but they are all scrambling to their feet, slippery with blood and other things as they clamber and rush out of the room wild-eyed and baying like strange monsters.

She flinches, and straightens up to try and follow.  _Don’t leave me_. To be alone again is something she cannot stand.

(Again? Has she been alone before? She doesn’t know.)

Two more things she remembers as she gains the courage to look up and follow after them, leaving behind the still-born ninth behind. Or maybe they left before the rest of them? Where are you?

There is a man who she loves and she needs to find. It is the most important thing in the world for her to find this man because if she does not something terrible will happen. And there is a part of her that feels older and more awake and aware and sharper than the rest of her that is still clawing at fog that demands him to be at her side right  _the fuck now_.

She does not know his name.

The second thing is that there is another man who she loves and needs to find. It is the most imperative thing in the world for her to find this man because if she does not something terrible will continue to happen. And there is a part of her that is furious and spitting and soft and vulnerable and more hurt than the rest of her that is still covered in blood that says that he should be here.

She does not know his name, either.

A third thing that she remembers as she stumbles down wooden stairs, taking in details that might be important later (a clock with no numbers just hands hanging on a plain wall, blinds not curtains, a scenic painting on the hallway wall next to the front door, a kitchen that has several bloody footprints that match those of her fleeing friends, and the sound of sirens coming to life closer and closer).

Her name is Ellana.

“Ellana,” She whispers as she leaps out of the house, following the bloody trail her friends have left, vaulting over the porch and stumbling, rolling, scrambling over the grass and into the woods behind, into the dark, “Ellana.”

-

She does not mean to do it.

No, that’s a lie. She does mean to do it, right then, but she didn’t plan on doing it at first. It was a reaction to the situation. She wanted to talk. Ellana wanted to find out about their missing member.

She wanted to ask the others if they dreamt at all.

Ellana has had two dreams that she thinks are her memories.

In the first she is sleeping somewhere. The room is plain, simple. It feels very calm and she is not in bed. This is a sofa, or a chair. It’s so comfortable and she feels at peace. There’s some sort of work spread out on the coffee table but the TV is on and there are cartoons that she can barely make out through her mostly-closed eyes as she drifts in and out of sleep.

She can hear sounds coming from behind her. Behind her, she knows, is a hallway. And on the other side of that hallway is a kitchen. Her kitchen.

And the man in the kitchen making coffee while talking on the phone with someone is so important to her. Her heart swells in her chest thinking about it.

And then a phone rings, and she wakes up.

In the second dream Ellana is running. She is running and it is dark and she is alone. She can hear laughter from above and around her. These forests and trails are familiar but at night they are transformed, frightening. She is small, a child, she thinks. This must be a childhood memory.

There is laughter and the sound of movement in branches and she is crying. She’s calling out for someone. Someone important. Someone she lost.

She trips. She falls.

She wakes up.

Ellana has a house with a room that is plain and simple and a man whom she loves.

Ellana once got lost in the woods while looking for someone as a child.

This is Ellana so far.

She wants to ask the others if they dream like she does. She wants to ask them if they remember anything about why they were covered in blood in that attic. Who’s house was that? Who put them there? Why?

Ellana had though that since they were all there together like that they must have been friends. She knew their faces. She felt something in her heart when she looked at them. They were friends. She thought.

Falon’din is gaunt and cruel-faced and then he is nothing.

But he says something to her.

(He says many things, but she cannot handle them all at once. At the time it had already felt overwhelming and now with the stretch of memory to turn things infinite it is even worse.)

He gives her many clues, but the way he gives them to her - “Let that be your curse then, I hope you never find your answers and you are forever lost and alone and  _adrift._ It would be less than what you truly deserve.” - tells her that whatever she felt when she first knew and saw them cannot be trusted.

Falon’din looked at her, spat at her, like he hated her more than anything in the world.

(“At least it is you,”He had mused, sneering even as her hand raised against her will, going with an instinct that she didn’t remember in time, “The irony.”)

She did not mean to do that to him.

She doesn’t even know  _how_  she did it to him.

Ellana looks at her left hand, the black discoloration that she had thought was a bruise on her palm. And if she holds her hand up to the light, spreading her fingers out against the sun, she can see a sliver of light clear through her hand, filtered green. Like someone had carved out a bit of her bone and flesh, just a little, and replaced it with a piece of light green glass.

He had told her - “Wolf. Horns. Veil.”

She cried. She cried and she didn’t even know why. She just cried because those three words scared her straight down to her guts and the three of them in that particular sequence together made her want to cover her ears and hide.

Falon’din laughed. And he continued to do his work. His  _art_.

She told him to stop. And he did not.

And then he said,  _Should I add you to my art as well?_

Something inside of her held her left hand up, as though she were going to crook her finger at him and ask him to come over to her. But then her hand clenched into a fist and  _pulled_.

Falon’din whispered,  _the irony_ , and he was gone.

One more thing Ellana knows about herself.

She’s done this before.


	278. Chapter 278

Ellana doesn't seek the others out after Falon’din, not at first. No, at first Ellana is horrified by what she’d done.

No, that’s not true. She had been horrified of what Falon’din had done, of what Falon’din was capable of. Why would she feel love for someone who could - who  _did_  those things? To people? To animals? To things?

(Love is a complicated word. She had loved him. But she knows in her heart she also hated him. And she feared him. And she remembered him well and proudly. And she was disgusted with him. Each name of the eight faces that are her first concrete memory stir up too many things for counting when she tries to grasp understanding of them.)

Falon’din and what he’d been doing to the people and animals of this neighborhood had horrified her. He had molded them into strange objects and cast them out onto the street. He had stretched people like taffy and molded them to walls like graffiti, he had taken their bones and turned them into fences, with thin veins and nerves still curled around them. He had grafted eyes still attached to their roots into ivy on cafe walls.

He’d done more than that.

Horrific things.

But Ellana had done a terrible thing of her own. Does that mean that  _she_  is terrible?

She unmade him. No. That implies she turned him into nothing. She didn’t.

 _She devoured him_.

Ellana doesn’t know how, but she knows this is true, and she knows it because she feels stronger, now. More powerful. Larger inside of herself. It feels awful.

Ellana doesn’t seek the others out after Falon’din because she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She continues to dream, she continues to feel a longing to find the other two - the one who is needed in her heart and the one who is needed at her side.

But she doesn’t try looking for the others. Not at first.

Ellana finds Sylaise on accident. She reads about a large mound of trees and grass and shrubs and wild things that had sprouted out and consumed an abandoned airport south of the city. And something inside of her said  _that’s her_. And the next thing Ellana knew she was getting off a bus with a backpack over her shoulder and walking there.

The thing that Ellana thinks that tipped her off, tipped something inside of her that remembers off, is that the article said that teenagers had taken to leaving tokens there. Candles and food. Coffees and cardboard cups of tea and hot chocolate. Cakes. Donuts. The occasional pack of cigarettes.

You would get answers to three questions by a voice in the verdant green.

So Ellana goes and she places down these things, because something in her remembers: a small jar of honey, a loaf of bread, a bottle of sleeping pills.

She puts these down on the cracked and unmaintained tarmac and looks straight at the overgrown leaves and ivy that have swallowed what used to be an airplane hanger.

“You will devour until there is nothing left and you will still remain empty, unfulfilled, and without a single answer to your questions,” A low voice says and Ellana’s throat closes and her left hand seems to pulse hot and powerful. She glances down and she half expects the flesh to be moving.

“I haven’t asked anything, Sylaise,” Ellana says, slowly moving towards the hanger.

“You’ve already asked for the world and gained it, you’ve asked for blood and devotion and death and you’ve had it,” Sylaise says, nothing in her voice. No judgement. No hate. No anger. No fear. Not like Falon’din. There’s simply  _nothing_  in her. That scares her.

It means that it might be true.

“Where is he? Where’s the ninth member of us?”

There are ten of them. Something in her says that she cannot be nine, she must be ten. There is a skip in their count. She does not know why she has to think this.

“Our number is not ten, things come in threes. We came in threes. Three circles made of three hearts linked together. Always changing, always shifting hands and faces. But we were never ten. We will never be ten,” Sylaise says.

“No,” Ellana insists, “There are ten of us. Sylaise - who is the tenth? Where is he? And - where is Jun?”

“What does Jun have to do with this?” Sylaise repeats, “He brought me here and waited for me to take root, and then he left to find his own.”

“Do you remember, Sylaise?” Ellana asks, “Sylaise, why did Falon’din hate me so much? Why won’t you let me see you? I don’t understand. Are the rest of you dreaming also?”

“You know why,” Sylaise says, “Remember? How could I forget? I would could almost pity you. You and your floundering. Your futile struggles. I could laugh at how you have become to be like this. Your great and mighty fall. I could. I do not.”

“Please,” Ellana begs, pushing branches aside as she tries to step into the hanger. The branches stiffen and keep her out, resisting her. “Sylaise,  _please_ , sister - “

The branches throw her back hard and Ellana grunts as she rolls back.

“You were never my sister,” Sylaise whispers, the closest to an emotion Ellana has heard from her. “You are already at three. Who, where, why. There is a message for you. Leave after you’ve seen it.” A pause. “Avoid the Inquisition. Do not speak to the Venatori. Go to Dirthamen. He looks for you.”

A piece of paper is thrown out of the hanger, falling into the grass that’s burst the asphalt just beyond. Ellana rises onto her hands and knees crawling towards it.

She unfolds it and she hears a voice - his voice, their missing ninth, she knows this instinctively in her gut - say,  _It’s over. You’ve won_.

“Won what?” Ellana says, reading the note over and over. Like that could give her more clues. “What did I win? What does this mean? When did he leave this? Sylaise? Where is he? What’s going on? Why were we in that room like that? Who did that to us? Who put us there? Sylaise?”

Silence.


	279. Chapter 279

Dirthamen was the only one who forgave her. Maybe he was already so lost and afraid and tired that he didn’t care anymore.

Dirthamen and Falon’din were twins. They were close. They were closer than any of them. Ellana had thought Dirthamen would hate her as much as Falon’din did. That he would want to destroy her as she had done to his twin.

He didn’t.

It takes Ellana weeks to find him. But that is because he can no longer be found. He’s no longer here.

Dirthamen unmade himself in the opposite way that Ellana had unmade Falon’din. Ellana unmade Falon’din and wove him into herself, swallowed him up, drank him down. Dirthamen unmade himself and threw himself into the world like a net. A fog. A cloud. Untouchable, unbound, and permanently fixed in a controlled peace where no one could reach him anymore.

A secret path that only he knew. And only the people he wanted could join him.

Ellana’s invitation is a crow’s feather, a cedar branch, and a preying mantis.

Ellana accepts the invitation and finds herself in the woods from her childhood. But the woods are light. It is day now.

And Dirthamen has become the woods, the sky, the sun, the earth, the water of the creek she can hear, and every single animal within it.

She feels him close softly around her, quietly.

And together they are silent. She wanted to apologize. She wanted to ask questions. But what was the point when Dirthamen couldn’t answer her?

Before she left Dirthamen let a vine of ivy fall and touch her shoulder, grazing it like a brush.

 _You cannot help what you have become,_  she thinks she heard someone whisper to her,  _you could never control your own changes._

Even as Ellana tried to create the words in her mouth to ask what that meant Dirthamen was already gone. Elsewhere, else when.

-

Sylaise had said not to trust the Inquisition or the Venatori. With names like those Ellana doesn’t even need to consider  _why_. They sound menacing enough.

But the Inquisition is harder to avoid than she first thought. Ellana doesn’t remember if this is normal or not, but it seems like the Inquisition is  _everywhere_. 

The Inquisition is very powerful and very spread out.

She gets an email from one of the Inquisition’s people once - and she doesn’t know how or why they know her, for all she knows they’re the ones responsible for all of this - and it says,  _stay where you are, we’re coming for you_.

Ellana bolts. Of course she doesn’t stay.

Ellana bolts, and in the middle of running from the Inquisition she runs straight into Ghilan’nain. Or more accurately, she’s  _sucked_  into Ghilan’nain.

The car that she’s driving doesn’t stand a chance. One minute the sky is clear, the roads are fine, and Ellana is beginning to breathe easy and then she blinks and she’s driving straight into a tornado. Lightning, thunder, wind howling, dust raising, trees being flung around, the whole nine yards and then some.

Ellana closes her eyes and she feels her left palm pulse and flare up again, feels it and sees the light bright on the back of her eyelids, and she’s swallowed in a wave of warm energy that feels like she just got misted by a spray bottle full of warm water.

And when she opens her eyes she’s not in her car. She’s standing in the center of the tornado, her car nowhere in sight, and about six or so yards in front of her there’s a small one story house with lights in the windows. Perfectly unharmed.

Ellana goes inside and there she is. Ghilan’nain is lying down on a low couch, sweating and panting, fists and teeth clenched in between loud groans.

“Ghilan’nain?” Ellana whispers, hand falling from the door as she steps inside, “Ghilan’nain?!?”

Ghilan’nain lets out a loud and long groan that seems to make the entire house shake and then she moans, “What are you doing here?”

“Where’s here?” Ellana asks, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Ghilan’nain shakes her head, sweat making her dark skin glisten as she breathes out loud and harsh, “Get the fuck out.”

“I can’t,” Ellana says, “There’s a tornado. And my car is gone.”

Just like everything else in my life.

Ghilan’nain groans again and then screams, curling up, eyes closed. Ellana has to put her hands over her hears and it still feels like her skull is rattling.

“What’s happening?” Ellana asks, ears ringing as Ghilan’nain hunches over, hands gripping the sofa so tightly Ellana hears fabric rip.

“Nothing, everything. The usual,” Ghilan’nain says unhelpfully. “What do you want? You already have Falon’din. I didn’t do anything to you.”

“I didn’t - “ Ellana starts, “Wait - do you remember? Ghilan’nain, please. Please. Help me. I don’t - I don’t know what’s going on or why this is happening and no one can answer me.”

Ghilan’nain snorts, throwing a strand of dark hair out of her sweaty face as she sneers up at Ellana, “It’s not that none of us can’t answer you. We won’t. You don’t deserve it.”

“Why?” Ellana asks. standing her ground, “Why don’t I deserve to know?”

Ghilan’nain’s expression wavers and her voice is a little kind when she answers, “Because some of us think you should suffer in ignorance for what you’ve done. And some of us think you deserve to not have to remember after everything you’ve gone through.”

Before Ellana can ask which one of those groups Ghilan’nain belongs to, the woman screams, bending forward and Ellana watches with horror as Ghilan’nain’s body jackknifes straight, and then arches upwards unnaturally, and the skin from her throat to her groin splits open and spreads out.

Something climbs out of Ghilan’nain.

It is large. It is steaming from just crawling out of Ghilan’nain’s  _body._ And it has horns, wings, a tail, and an odd number of eyes. Fifteen eyes. And no discernible head that Ellana can tell.

It shakes, splattering blood as Ghilan’nain’s body limply falls down on the sofa and then  _seals_  itself back together. Her dress is ruined, but her body becomes whole.

Ghilan’nain coos, running her hand over the sticky furred back of the thing that just came out of her, “Hello my darling one.”

And then, as if she’d forgotten Ellana was there, she looks up and frowns, “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Liar. Just like  _him_ ,” Ghilan’nain spits.

“Like who?”

Ghilan’nain shakes her head, pulling the creature close to her and holding it to her breast as it curls around her, stretching thin wings and blinking milky white eyes.

“Where is our ninth member?” Ellana asks. “What happened to us?”

Ghilan’nain shakes her head again, “There is no ninth. There is no us. Leave.”

As soon as Ellana steps out of the door she is back in her car, driving down a stretch of clear road.

Her phone chimes with a new email. A different Inquisition member.

_Where are you going?_


	280. Chapter 280

Four dreams Ellana has between Sylaise and Elgar’nan, in the order she’d dreamt them.

Sweat runs down her arms, but it isn’t sweat. It’s copper, liquid and glittering leaving trails that glisten over the skin of her arms, pooling in the soft indentation of her elbow and following over veins and filling creases in her wrists and palms. Her skin is dark from the heat of fire, working all day every day when she isn’t spending time in the cool shade listening to her beloved singing. Ellana is with her beloved now, taking a cold glass of water with sprigs of mint and drops of lemon making it go down that much sweeter.

Sylaise’s eyes, in this dream, are very clear and bright. Like stars.

Ellana’s heart soars. But it is not her heart and these are not her hands because when she thinks about Sylaise this is not how she feels. And from the way Sylaise had avoided her, Ellana doesn’t think that they were ever lovers. If she and Sylaise were lovers, why did Sylaise treat her so coldly? What did Ellana do to drive them apart like that?

And Ellana’s arms do not look like this. She is a man in this dream. She is tall and broad shouldered and the sun burns the back of her-his neck as copper-sweat slides down the side of his face. Sylaise’s hand is cool as she brushes it away and Ellana catches her thin wrist and kisses the jut of her bone. Her skin tastes like pollen, like spring, like the tickle of the underside of a leaf.

Sylaise laughs and it sounds so much like rushing water.

“What have you made for me today?” Sylaise asks her.

And Ellana is suddenly and vividly aware of the weight of something in her other hand, hidden behind her back. She pulls Sylaise towards her and holds her close, feeling Sylaise’s laughter as she tries to take the thing hidden from her.

Ellana kisses Sylaise’s neck and when Sylaise pulls away, prize caught, the print of Ellana’s lips is bright, bright gold. Sylaise’s skin glitters everywhere it touched Ellana’s.

Sylaise holds up a small ring that has a small topaz on it and she slides it onto her small finger. She smiles.

“It matches your eyes,” Sylaise says, softly, fondly, warmly. Nothing like the Sylaise at the airport hanger Ellana had tried to speak to. “I love your eyes.”

Did Ellana have topaz eyes?

In the second dream she coughs, painful and cold and stinging. Everything hurts like she’s been bruised and battered all over. Her head, her hands, her thighs, her feet, her back, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her neck,  _even her hair_  feels like its been beaten. She falls forward onto her hands and the sand hurts against her palms. The ocean crashes down on her back and stings.

When she turns to go back to it, the tides push her out again, unyielding and merciless.

Ellana stands, confounded, at the shore as she stares into the ocean. And she yells,  _take me back_.

The ocean roars back at her,  _you are not one of us anymore. Go to him._

Ellana already knows who the ocean means. She can feel the heat of the sun at her back even though he is leagues away wreaking his havoc.

 _No_ , Ellana says, attempting to force her way back into the water where she was free and at peace.  _Never._

But the ocean refuses her. The ocean denies her. And she is heartbroken with every wave that pushes her back against the shore, harder and more violent than before.

And then, softly, the receding tide’s foam and bubbles caressing her legs and ankles and toes as it retreats,  _someday, but not yet. Please._

And because the ocean never says please, she turns towards the pillar of light that she can feel but not see and she agrees,  _not yet, but someday._ And there is relief on her salt-crusted shoulders.

It will end.

Nothing is ever hers alone. Ellana is standing over her twin’s bed and frowning down at him. Nothing in this world is hers. Everything is shared. Not a single thing belongs to her and her alone. It’s unfair.

Just because they are twins doesn’t mean they have to share everything. Dirthamen can have  _his_  things and she will have her own. There’s no harm in that.

Just one thing. That’s all she’s asking for. One thing that is hers and hers alone.

Ellana reaches out and with quick and clever fingers she adjusts the tilt of Dirthamen’s eyes, sliding them downwards. Just a little. Almost unnoticeable. Just enough to make them less mirror images of each other. Dirthamen was always the more morose of them anyway. She pinches the edges of his mouth and thins out his sleeping lips. There.

Now Dirthamen has his own face and she has her own.

Now they are two when they were once forced to be one.

But Dirthamen wakes up before Ellana can return back to her bed and he must see something in her face because fear crosses Dirthamen’s not-exactly-new features and he jumps out of bed, rushing to the mirror. And he screams. He wails. He starts crying and howling.

“I’m sorry,” Ellana says from behind him as Dirthamen scrubs at his eyes and sobs, “I just - I just wanted us to be different for once. Aren’t you tired of us always being fused into one person just because we’re twins?”

“It was  _my face too_ ,” Dirthamen wails and Ellana can hear the others waking. “ _Fix it!_ ”

“Okay, okay!” Ellana rushes over to him, “Stop crying, I can fix it. I can fix it. I’m sorry - I just - I’m sorry!”

And Ellana does fix it. It’s like looking into a mirror, even as unhappiness settles in her stomach. She hates to make Dirthamen upset. But also -

Just once. Just once couldn’t she have something for her own?

This is her own house. This is where she lives. This is where she comes back to after work. This is who she comes back to after work, even though they work together and carpool and all of that stuff. It’s the setting that changes the mood, kind of.

Ellana is lying in bed, tucked into the curve of a much larger body. She can feel his slow breathing, his chest flush against her back, one of his large thighs nudged between her own. She can feel the exhale of his breath against her hair and Ellana nuzzles her face into her pillow.

A name on her lips that can’t quite form.

A finger taps against hers and Ellana’s eyes open, clearing a little as she looks up.

There is a tall, thin boy standing over her. She can see him in the light from outside the window. His face is long and a little sad, his hair hangs in his face. The color of it reminds her of dried grass. Or pale, pale straw. Cotton.

“ _I had a bad dream,_ ” Cole says. His name is Cole. She knows this without question. Ellana raises the blankets without comment and he climbs in slowly, jerkily, unsure. She pulls him close and the heavy arm slung over her waist stretches out to encompass Cole too. The man behind her continues to sleep.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ellana asks, still mostly asleep.

“I dreamed that he came back,” Cole whispers. “And he took you away.”

“Not if I take him away first,” Ellana whispers back as she falls asleep. “I’ll always come back. And I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop me from coming back to you.”


	281. Chapter 281

Ellana finds Mythal where she’d least expect.

In the suburbs.

Ellana’s just gotten off a bus and about to get on is a woman with familiar golden yellow eyes that look a little to vivid to be real.

“Oh,” The woman blinks, and Ellana can literally trace this woman’s pupil up and down in a straight line, “You have his eyes.”

“What?” Ellana asks.

She’s had too many encounters with her hostile…

Are they family? Most of them don’t act like family. Or friends. But Ellana had that dream - those dreams -

“Jun’s?” Ellana asks.

And the woman’s mouth turns down, sad. But not angry. Not hateful. Not afraid, either. Just sad. It’s been a long time since Ellana’s talked to someone and they weren’t anything that didn’t mean pain to her.

“No,” The woman shakes her head, and points Ellana past a series of white fenced houses with green lawns and shady trees, “Turn left.”

And then the woman steps past Ellana to get on the bus, and just before the doors close, the woman says over the hiss of the doors - “ _The world is yours_.”

“What?” Ellana turns but the doors to the bus are closed and it’s too late now.

So Ellana walks. That wasn’t Mythal’s face. But those were her familiar eyes. No one has eyes like Mythal. No one. Not even Andruil, though hers are close.

Ellana walks and there is a young boy playing catch with a dog in a  yard next to an abandoned red bicycle and he has Mythal’s golden eyes and he tosses the stick to the far end of the yard, coming up to the fence and walking with her from one end of the yard to the next.

“You can turn back you know,” He says, “No one would blame you if you did. No one’s making you do this.”

The dog also has Mythal’s golden eyes when he comes up next to his boy, stick in his mouth. Ellana wouldn’t be surprised at this point if the dog started talking, but he doesn’t, it just passes the stick to his boy and gives Ellana a look like he’s trying to tell her to turn around.

“I have to,” Ellana says.

What did I kill Andruil and Falon’din for if I don’t?

The boy shrugs, “Suit yourself. It’s the house with the green trim and the oil stain in the driveway.”

He tosses the stick back to the other end of the yard. A regular boy.

But as she’s almost out of earshot he says - “ _Create it in your image._ ”

Ellana turns over her shoulder but the boy and the dog are playfully wrestling on the ground as the dog licks his boys face and the boy laughs.

She finds the house with the green trim and the oil stain in the driveway easy enough. There’s a woman gardening in the house next to it. She’s pulling up weeds, wearing a wide straw hat and a pink t-shirt and grass stained capris.

She groans as she stands up, turning and squinting at Ellana with the same golden eyes.

“Are you all her?” Ellana asks.

“After a fashion,” The woman replies. “Do you want something to drink? She’s not in yet.”

“The others pointed me here,” Ellana says. The other  _you’s_. The other  _her’s_.

“Doesn't mean she’s here yet,” The woman says, “Water? Lemonade? Pop?”

“Water, please,” Ellana says and the woman gestures her into a house that has white lace curtains and a white iron gate over the open door. The house inside is simple with family pictures on the wall, shoes in the hallway, and the faint sound of music coming from upstairs.

Ellana sits down at a kitchen table that’s slightly rickety and the woman hands her a tall glass of water. The glass has yellow polka dots on it.

“Can you tell me anything?” Ellana asks, “Will you tell me anything?”

The woman looks at her over the rim of her own glass, gardening gloves placed on the kitchen counter as she stands in front of the sink. Her eyes seem to glow a little.

“It isn’t your fault,” She says, “It was never your fault. You were only ever trying to fix something that you didn’t even start.”

“What does that mean?” Ellana asks.

“Do you have to know?” The woman replies. “You could leave it. Start over. You can just live your life as it is. None of us would get in your way.”

“But what kind of life did I have?” Ellana asks, putting the glass down, her left hand shaking with the slow thrum of power. “What is this? It isn’t magic. I mean, it is. But it isn’t. It isn’t a spell, I don’t think. This hand isn’t a spell. Or a curse. It’s something else.  _I’m_  something else. Did I always have it? What is it for? Who made it? Why don’t any of you have one too?”

Ellana knows she could ask the Colleges. This bit has not been erased with her amnesia. But something inside of her says that if she goes to the Colleges she’ll be caught. Something inside of her warns her against going to other people about this. It tells her to keep her head down and seek out the others from that night quietly, carefully, and as unobtrusively as possible.

The woman who is and is not Mythal at the same time looks sad.

“She’s here now. You can take the water with you, if you like. You can take the front or back door, doesn’t make much difference.”

“I just want to know,” Ellana says softly, standing up but leaving the water. “Why am I the only one who forgot?”

Ellana leaves through the front door, the golden eyes of the woman who is and isn’t Mythal on her the entire time.

As Ellana closes the iron gate behind her, she hears the woman say, “ _You’ve earned happiness, despite all odds._ ”

Earned it? How do you earn happiness?

The door to the house with green trim is unlocked. Ellana goes in.

Mythal is -

“What happened to you?” Ellana says, standing in the front room and staring at the old, old woman sitting on a brown sofa. The woman’s eyes are the most beautiful and vibrant gold Ellana has ever seen. They seem to light up the room all by themselves.

She did not look this way that night.

“This is how I should always be,” Mythal says, “It was how I was before. And no magic can change what I have become. It is how I want to be. Not like the others. Always young and beautiful and perfect. I can be beautiful and perfect without the disguise of youth. You knew that, once.”

Mythal’s eyes are playful and kind and welcoming. Ellana finds herself walking over to sit next to her as the old woman smiles, taking her hand.

“You’ve come so far,” Mythal says, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to just…stop? Rest? Reap the rewards of your sacrifice?”

“What sacrifice?” Ellana asks, “Come so far? From where? That house? Please. No one will give me answers. I need to know. What happened?”

“You already know what happened, Ellana,” Mythal replies. “You just haven’t remembered it yet.”

“How do I remember faster?” Ellana says and Mythal laughs. Ellana frowns. “No, I mean it. I’ve been having - these dreams of my past, but they aren’t right. They’re…I’m different? In them? All of them feel like me but sometimes I feel more me than in others. I dreamed - “

Mythal touches Ellana’s knee and shakes her head. “Those are not for me to hear. And I think you already know why those dreams of yours aren’t right. They aren’t dreams, Ellana. What is another word for seeing something that has already happened?”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Ellana protests, “I can’t be  _remembering_  all of this. It’s contradictory.”

“You can, it isn’t,” Mythal says. “You remember it, but it isn’t you. You can remember things that aren’t yours, Ellana.”

Ellana swallows hard and Mythal, of course, says the thing Ellana doesn’t want to hear.

“You have our memories in you, now,” Mythal says, “A piece of our souls migrated into yours when the nine of us reformed.”

“Ten,” Ellana whispers. This she knows must be true. This above all things she knows is true. She meets Mythal’s eyes, and she dares Mythal to tell her she’s wrong, she isn’t. “There are ten of us.”

Mythal runs a gentle hand over Ellana’s hair before firmly gripping the back of her neck so that Ellana can’t look away, and then she says, “You have his eyes.”

“Jun’s?” Ellana asks.

“No,” Mythal’s mouth pinches downwards, sad and pitying, “No one in the world had eyes as gray as his. I loved my brother’s eyes. They reminded me of the sea.”

Ellana’s heart clenches tighter than her throat and fists can and she instantly feels like she wants to cry.

“You are our ninth, Ellana,” Mythal says, voice low and soft, “There can only be nine of us at once. It was either you or him, and he wanted it to be you.”

“No,” Ellana chokes out, voice far away and weak in her ears. “There are ten of us.”

“Nine,” Mythal says. “There are only nine of us. And he wanted you to know this, Ellana. This this the will he passed onto us when he disappeared. He wanted you to know that it’s over. You can do what you want now. The world is yours. You won. Do what you want and be proud of it. You’ve earned it all and more.”

Ellana’s breath chokes.

She doesn’t even remember his name. His face.

“Avoid the Inquisition, Ellana,” Mythal says, and Ellana can feel a dismissal even though she hasn’t gotten nearly enough of her answers. She still doesn’t know what they were doing in that house, why they were covered in blood and slime. She doesn’t know why she can’t remember anything. “If you can’t remember anything you won’t be ready for them. It would only hurt you more, and the one you love.”

Ellana’s hand closes around Mythal’s, the flare of green bright and dangerous and as hot as Ellana’s heart, “You know him.”

A different him, but no less important.

“Only through what I know through you and my brother,” Mythal replies, “Enough to know that you aren’t ready yet. It would break your heart worse than it’s broken now if you met him so soon. There are things for you to remember first.”

“Tell me so I can remember faster.”

“I can’t remember these things for you, Ellana,” Mythal says, pulling her up and moving her towards the door. “I can’t tell you how much you loved him or how you met or what you two did together. It wouldn’t mean anything if I gave it to you like that. And he means everything to you. You’ve lost enough, Ellana. You’ve lost enough.”


	282. Chapter 282

June is surprised to see her. But he doesn’t look angry.

That's different. So far the only one who hadn’t been angry to see her was Dirthamen, and that was because he’d let go of everything. Dirthamen had thrown away whatever life he had and turned inwards to memory and sensation. Dirthamen turned himself into a controlled space, a cycle of time that he could experience forever and always.

Falon’din mocked her and baited her and needled at her like it was revenge for something she had done. He treated her like for as long as he’d known her, as long as they’d existed on this planet, he’d hated her. Even as Ellana’s hand unmade him and swallowed him whole, he hated her.

Sylaise was cold. Maybe they had been friends once. Ellana had that strange dream of them - but it wasn’t exactly her in it.

Ghilan’nain was angry, annoyed even. Irritated. Like Ellana was some bad penny she’d thrown out and kept finding again and again and again. Stuck to her like a burr. Like garbage. A worm and less than that.

Andruil loathed her.

There is a small part of her that is very quiet but very clear as it cuts through the chaos of Ellana’s search and running and hiding and  _trying_  that says, calmly and perfectly composed in the aftermath of what Ellana had done,  _she deserved a more painful death than that._

And was satisfied to say it.

Ellana doesn’t know what that means, exactly. What it means that there’s a part of herself that’s calm and collected in the face of not just killing someone, erasing their life, but  _absorbing_  it into herself. She knows she’s done this before. The feeling isn’t new. Ellana can remember doing this. She can remember pulling and taking and absorbing some other magic into herself.

What the hell was she that she’s  _used_  to it?

“Oh,” June blinks, surprise clear and unhidden on his face as he slowly puts down the steel bar he had been carrying from one area of the warehouse to the other. “It’s you.”

“Hello, June,” Ellana says. And she cautiously walks forward, energy curled around her left hand. She’s learned some things. Remembered some more.

She has plenty of tricks now. She’s more prepared.

It won’t be like with Andruil.

Ellana doesn’t want to destroy another person.

“Hey, no need for that,” June says, eyebrows raising, “Though if what Sylaise told me is true, you’ve gotten around some and you probably needed that there. I’m not going to fight if you don’t.”

Ellana hesitates and June shakes his head, gesturing for her to follow him as he picks up the beam again as if he were carrying a book under his arm and continues walking across the cement floor.

“What are you doing?” Ellana asks.

“What I’m meant to do,” June replies. “You really have forgotten, haven’t you?”

“No one will tell me what I’ve forgotten,” Ellana says and she hopes she doesn’t sound overly petulant. “No one will explain anything to me. They’re angry and I don’t know why. They want me to not know. Like it’s - it’s revenge for me to not know why they’re angry and why they want to hurt me.”

“It is, but it isn’t exactly against you,” June says, setting the beam down next to several others like it.

“Against who, then?”

June doesn’t answer her. Ellana scowls at his back as he goes to inspect a forge. It’s not an industrial forge, not like one Ellana’s ever seen. Not that she’s seen very many.

“It can’t have been that bad, you don’t hate me,” Ellana says.

“Oh no,” June laughs, “I  _loathe_  you. Trust me, I do. I’m just smarter about it.”

June looks at her over his shoulder as he reaches into the flame and nudges some wood around. Ellana stares at his bare arms, his bare hands, as they emerge unburnt and completely fine.

That’s another thing she’s trying to figure out.

Their powers. It’s not a spell. Ellana knows spells. She was a mage before - still is, sort of. Spells need sigils, they need incantations, they need gestures, they need runes, they need preparation, they need structure. Spells are like…equations. They don’t just  _happen_  without a process. A spell is a spell because it pieces together blocks of other things using energy and logic to create other things.

But the things she’s seen the others doing - that’s not a spell. What Falon’din was doing with those bodies, what Dirthamen did to himself, what Andruil did to all those people, what Ghilan’nain did to create those monsters, what Sylaise did to cultivate that forest, what June does right now as he hums to himself, the flesh of his arm slowly unbraiding to reveal veins and tendons made of gold and silver and bronze and copper and every metal you can think of, as June gently nudges parts of his arm apart and plucks out a single round emerald that he places on a work table as his skin melts and molds itself back together. That isn’t a spell.

And what Ellana does? The things Ellana has figured out? Those aren’t spells either.

You don’t  _unmake_  a person and absorb them into yourself as a spell.

“Sylaise told me about when you went to her,” June says, “Just because we’re apart right now doesn’t mean we aren’t together. It made her sad to see you that way, you know. But you hurt her. You hurt us. Not you, exactly. Well. Sort of. You  _did_  put us in that place, kind of.”

“Not exactly, sort of, kind of, either I did or I didn’t and I’m being punished either way,” Ellana says, watching as June peels - like he’s taking apart a bit of licorice candy - some steel off a beam and starts to wind it around the emerald.

“It’s both,” June says, shaking his head. “Listen. I hate you. Your existence? The fact that you’re here right now? I hate it. I hate that you killed Falon’din and Andruil, even if I never got along with them. We’re supposed to be nine, you know? Now we’re down to seven. And I know that our numbers are only going to get smaller because of you.”

“Ten,” Ellana says and June glares at her.

“Nine,” He says slowly like she’s an exceptionally dull person, “Don’t try to correct me. What would you know? You don’t even remember who you are, you stupid pissant.”

Ellana flinches backwards, her left hand sparking to life in her defense and June’s eyes snap to it, his broad fists clenching on the table before slowly opening again and resuming their work with the emerald.

“Before you I never knew we could go like that,” June continues slowly, voice tense and daring her to interrupt him again. “I didn’t know we could be destroyed. Devoured. Consumed. There was Mythal, but that was different. We didn’t  _really_ destroy her, we just scattered her then blocked her off from coming back. I mean - I know what it takes to create one of us. But I had thought it had to be willing. You  _took_  from us. Most of us didn’t even want you but you reached into us and  _took_. That’s fucking terrifying.  _You’re existence_  is terrifying.”

“One of us?”

“Ellana,” June’s palms flatten and he looks at her, exasperated and angry at the same time, “Did you think you were some regular elf girl who lost her memory? Take a fucking look around you. At your own hand. Yes,  _one of us_.”

“You mean - you, we aren’t - ?”

June shakes his head. Annoyed.

“The only reason I don’t try and kill you like Andruil and Falon’din did is because I can’t. I’m not strong enough. And I don’t want to die.” June holds the emerald up in its new metal cage by a thin strand of steel. It moves like a spider’s web in the wind. Delicate and almost invisible. “The last time we did this I wasn’t ready. I underestimated you. We all did. And you killed my  _wife_  for it. That’s the part that pisses me off the most, you know. That you killed her. This time, though? I’ll be ready for you. And because I know that it isn’t exactly  _you_ , not the same you from last time, I feel like I should give you a heads up. Since you don’t remember shit.”

June casually throws the emerald off to the side, and just as it drops, before Ellana can process it, the emerald explodes in a shower of bright green flame with a loud screaming burst.

The mark on Ellana’s hand flares up, and time slows around her as green-white light flows out in a barrier around her, creating a bubble between her and the explosion. Ellana watches through slowed time as the flame from inside the emerald billows out and super heated shrapnel cuts paths through the air.

June watches her the entire time, fierce pride in his eyes.

Ellana’s heart hammers in her chest when it’s over and she allows time to return to its normal pace, left hand aching with exertion.

June smiles. It reminds her of Andruil. Just a little.

“You love someone like I love her,” June says, “And I figure someone who loves like that can’t be completely bad. So go try and find that person again. And stop killing us. It’s like he said, you already won.”


	283. Chapter 283

Ellana doesn’t even know Elgar’nan is there. She doesn’t seem him until the last moment. It is he who sees her first.

And Ellana doesn’t know what he was thinking. She’ll never know. She’ll never know what he was thinking or what he was to her or what he thought of her. She’ll never get to ask him any questions or talk to him or anything.

Ellana finishes crossing the street and looks up and sees Elgar’nan getting off a bus on the other end of the block. No, she doesn’t see him. That’s not true. Ellana didn’t see Elgar’nan at all.

She crossed the street, and her head was a mess of Sylaise, Mythal, and June. The things they said to her. What she’s slowly understanding and trying to wish away. She should have listened, she thinks. They were right.

The truth is not something she wants to know.

And yet?

She’s nowhere near closer to finding the man her heart says she’s missing. She’s nowhere near close to understanding the  _why and how_  of the facts that are before her.

The Inquisition keeps finding her and she doesn’t know how. But everyone has told her to stay away from them and Ellana thinks maybe the Inquisition is responsible for what happened to them. But why?

The Inquisition is a very high level and supposedly well respected organization that handles international threats as well as socio-economic issues. What is the Inquisition doing…with them?

Is it too many bad movies and TV shows for her to say government experimentation for weaponized people? From what Ellana found online the Inquisition  _did_  do a lot of heavy research a few years back regarding magical distortions and hot-spots. All of the things she read felt vaguely familiar. Maybe she was a researcher on it?

Or…one of the others was.

(Another dream-memory-stolen-time Ellana has that she understands now is not hers at all. This one bothers her because their missing ninth person is just out of her field of vision. He must be far away, because his voice sounds muffled. But she knows its him.

Ellana is Ghilan’nain or Andruil. Not Sylaise, Sylaise’s hands don’t look like this. Not Mythal, Mythal is standing next to her. No, she’s either Ghilan’nain or Andruil.

And they are laughing together. It is a happy memory. Ellana’s seen so many terrible ones. But this one is happy. What took them from this memory to all the others? Where is Ellana?)

“ _Wolf_ ,” Ellana hears a voice rise over the sounds of pedestrians and traffic. And Ellana looks up and it takes her a moment to find his face.

It is  _radiant_. Furious. Outraged. Venomous. And beginning to glow.

Ellana’s eyes widen and Elgar’nan’s dark eyes blacken further as his skin turns into a six foot tall torch.

“ _I would rather die,”_ Elgar’nan says, “ _And take you with me._ ”

Ellana barely has time to react. She raises her hands as Elgar’nan’s built up magic explodes outwards and Ellana’s anchor bursts to life creating a shield around her - and only her - as Elgar’nan  _nukes an entire city_.

The light sears straight through Ellana’s eyelids and there isn’t even time for sound. Even through the shield Ellana still feels the heat, the force, and she falls back. Her left hand throbs, stings, and it feels like someone’s driven a spike straight through her palm and down through her arm.

It feels like someone’s shaken her head around like a snow globe when it’s over. Ellana blinks up at the sky, spots in her vision. The shield collapses, but the green light-mist of it slowly falls onto her face and she feels it sink into her skin. It feels like being pressed through glass.

And then her vision clears and her head stops ringing. Her arm feels like it’s been smashed by a hammer or run over by a car, but the rest of her is fine.

The rest of the city, however, is not.

Ellana slowly sits up and there is nothing around her at all. Just melted…everything. No matter which direction Ellana turns, it’s just flat  _nothing_. Not even ash.

She slowly stands to her feet, and a memory that she thinks might be hers knocks itself loose as she looks around. It didn’t look like this, though. It was - blackened. In the mountains somewhere. There were still some remains of whatever building was there left. And there also people. Charred in place and brittle.

If that memory is true and hers, she’s survived two explosions of a terrifying degree. Ellana from before was either living a very dangerous life or someone that someone else wanted to kill very badly.

Or maybe she was just that unlucky.

Ellana breathes out a rattling breath.

She needs to get out of here. The only survivor in a blast that big? The only lucky thing is that there aren’t any cameras to see her leave.

Of course she doesn’t get very far. How could she? No car. No bus. No bike. She can’t even hitch-hike. She has to walk. She doesn’t have supplies - food or water or anything. There’s nowhere for her to go to  _get_  any.

She’s fucked, basically.

So Ellana isn’t even close to surprised when three black armored cars with the Inquisition’s logo pull up and then off the road and slowly circle around her about three hours out.

Her arm still hurts and it’s gone numb from the elbow up, but Ellana thinks she could handle this. She watches the cars as people get out, the headlights of the cars casting sharp shadows as the sun sets.

“Are you hurt?” The speaker is a beautiful woman with a scar on her face, broad shoulders, and a crisp accent. She looks like she’s even concerned.

Ellana raises her left hand and lets some black smoke and green-white light mist out of it.

“Drive away,” Ellana says. There are some tricks she could use here without a fight, but she’s never tried it on so many people before.

The woman’s expression shutters, “Lavellan.”

Is that some kind of code word?

“Who are you and what do you want? Why is the Inquisition following me?” Ellana asks, mindful of the other people getting out of cars around her. No one’s drawn weapons yet. They could all be mages, though, as unlikely as that is. The Inquisition isn’t affiliated with any of the Circles or Colleges that she knows of.

“Seeker,” Ellana turns and the speaker is a dwarf who’s just gotten out of the truck behind her. Of all the things he’s got a crossbow, which makes Ellana pause for a second. The dwarf looks sad. “I don’t think she knows.”

Ellana bites her tongue from snapping and she glares at them all.

“Listen, I don’t know you, but you have no idea what you’re dealing with. Just leave me alone,” Ellana says. But something quiet in her says that if they’ve tracked her this far, and if they really were involved in what put her in this situation in the first place, the maybe they have every idea of what’s going on. Hell. They definitely know more than her.

It seems everyone does.

“Lavellan,” The woman who is apparently called Seeker says, hand held out to signal the people around them to step back.

Ellana watches them for signs of spells, magic, anything. There’s nothing. Their faces are strange. They’re scared, they should be, that’s not strange. They’re sad.

Why would they be sad?

“Lavellan,” The woman repeats.

“I don’t know what that word means,” Ellana says, “Is that some kind of code?”

Everyone’s faces immediately change from sad to deeply afraid and incredibly disturbed.

Seeker’s mouth opens and closes for a moment, eyes wide with surprise.

“You don’t…know what Lavellan means?” She says finally.

“I don’t know what anything means,” Ellana says, no small amount of anger in her voice, “Because no one will fucking tell me anything.”

All she has are vague clues from people who never want to see her again and memories that aren’t hers that she can’t figure out at all  _because the people they belong to never want to see her again._

 _“_ It’s your name,” a new voice says.

Ellana turns and there is a man with dark skin and a mustache looking at her through the open window of one of the cars. His eyes are bright with tears and his face looks like she’s just crushed his dreams.

Ellana can hear the sound of more cars approaching.

“Who’s name? I’m Ellana. Who the fuck is Lavellan?”

She turns around, feeling like an animal in a cage as more people surround her. And then a tall figure - a Qunari - comes through the circle. Ellana raises her left hand up, willing her arm to cooperate with her as she readies herself to defend.

The Qunari has one eye and he looks straight at her, face unreadable.

“Those aren’t her eyes,” He says, “Did you all forget? Those are his eyes.”

Ellana’s mind snaps around those words -  _Mythal’s face as she looked at Ellana close up for the first time, eyes like the sea, she’d never seen eyes so grey before_  -

“You know him? You know these eyes?” Ellana breathes, fragile hope pushing through her chest, “Where is he? What did you do to him? Where has he gone?”

The Inquisition knows her missing ninth.

He exists. He’s alive. He’s somewhere.

(Mythal and June are wrong about this. They all are. He’s out there and she’s going to find him and then -. Ellana doesn’t know what happens next. But she’s going to find him.)

The tall and broad man just looks into her, and for a second, she thinks she sees something incredibly sad in his face and then he must do something because then all the guns and spells are aimed at her and there’s a ring of purple around her - a spell circle - and she doesn’t have time to react against it as she feels sleep washing over her.

As Ellana hits the ground, eyes closing, she hears the Seeker says, “I’m sorry.”

At first Ellana thinks that it’s directed at her.

But then the man says, in a very low voice that feels like a wave against Ellana’s bones, “You get used to disappointment.”


	284. Chapter 284

It is Ellana’s turn to keep watch over the camp while the others do reconnaissance on their latest contract. Ellana’s coin purse has gained a substantial amount of weight since she joined the Iron Bull’s Chargers about a season ago. She should be good for months now, maybe even a little under a year if she’s frugal about it. More so than she normally is.

But it would be wiser to stay the winter season. They have tents and horses. They have stores that they can carry on wagons and pack animals that Ellana doesn’t have the means to bring with her.

Ellana sits on top of a rock formation that looks out over the drying and greyed out plains. Even with her elven eyes she can see the onset of winter settling over the land. They are not far from the contested lands of the Dirth. She could also try and find shelter with one of the clans there, but she has heard that the clans of the Dirth suffer from conflict and constant thinning of their ranks. Either their members are poached off by other passing clans or they’re cut down by the warring armies that make the Dalish holy grounds a blood bath.

She has options. Both are good. Both have their advantages and disadvantages.

She could also go at it alone. It’s too late for her to try and make it back North. The seas would be most unkind and it is not a pleasant trip by any means during the calmer months.

Ellana continues her work braiding and coiling some scrap leather strips and fine fabric she’d saved together. She’s not sure what she’s making the working for, but it gives her hands something to do and she could maybe even trade it later on. It is a simple thing, very generic. But Ellana knows her enchantments and her blessings.

She has a nice view of the Charger’s camp from this slope. The light is good and the angle is clear. She can see where they’ve put the animals and she can see the other Chargers walking bout camp: doing their own patrols, cooking, checking supplies, sneaking off for some…companionship.

Ellana allows her eyes to skim away from them and towards their surroundings.

“You know,” The Iron Bull says as he walks towards her from her left, “This shift is actually the most boring one. Nothing ever happens on it.”

“You’re calling on something to happen just by saying that, you realize,” Ellana replies, tilting her head towards him as he comes to a stop next to her. “I thought you were going out on the scouting mission with the others?”

“Nah,” The Iron Bull shrugs a shoulder and jerks his head towards the rocks, “Mind some company?”

Ellana nods her head and gestures for him to join her.

The Iron Bull sits, facing outwards, towards the rest of the plains, the Chargers at his back. Ellana takes a breath to look at him closer. She’s spoken to him a handful of times in passing. She’s been near him plenty enough outside of combat. Mostly through Dalish and Stitches bringing her into their circle.

He seems like a nice enough person. Strange and unexpected, but Ellana’s life has always been that way and that is how she chose it to be.

The questions she has bubble up inside of her. If she were a younger woman, a fresher and less of a wolf of a woman, she’d start tasing them now.

How did he lose his eye, or his fingers, for example. Or what do his tattoos mean, if anything. Or how he came upon then name the Iron Bull, which is a name chosen, not given, if she’s ever heard one.

But these days she is wolf’s teeth and the pad of wolf’s paws just as much as she is curiosity in spades.

So she holds her tongue on the questions she wants to ask and instead lets loose a smaller one to start, “Are you not cold?”

The Iron Bull turns his head so he can see her with his remaining eye and he laughs, “That’s your first question?”

Ellana answers by pulling her skins tighter around her shoulders, tucking some black fur underneath her chin as she angles herself towards him, tucking her braid of leather and fabric into her tunic, “My first said out loud to your face, yes. What is winter like, where you come from? Would I be correct in guessing it’s temperate enough to avoid a need for shirts and coats?”

“You would be,” The Iron Bull says, “It never really gets cold. It’s tropical. Mostly it rains and it storms, but it doesn’t get cold. The storms are something, though. Not like the ones here, cold wet. It gets cold. It gets wet. But not in the same way. It’s somehow more…I dunno. Vivacious?”

“Vivacious?”

“Don’t give me that look,” Bull says, “I’ve heard you and Dalish say that the winds are  _hesitant_  and the slope of a hill is  _uneasy_. A storm can be vivacious.”

“I never said otherwise,” Ellana replies, amused, “I didn’t think you were a man of such words, though.”

The Iron Bull wiggles his eyebrows at her, “I’m a man of many depths, Lavellan.”

Though you try not to appear to be, Ellana thinks to herself, mind flickering through a dozen and a half instances where she’s seen him do something particularly clever or inspired under the disguise of the battle-loving loud-mouthed foreigner. Oh, he is all of those things, but Ellana’s fingers touch against something underneath. She knows neither the shape nor color of it, but she thinks she might be putting a finger on the texture of it.

“And where you come from,” The Iron Bull says, that texture rearing to the surface - she can feel it in his eye as he faces her completely, putting her in the direct center of his vision -, he tilts his chin towards the staff she has leaning next to her, “They like wolves?”

Ellana smiles her wolf-woman’s smile at him as she holds her wolf pelts tight around her shoulders, like large haunches, a winter pelt.

“I know a thing or two about the Dalish. Don’t read me wrong, I’m not going to tell you I’m an expert, I’m not,” He continues, eyeing her carefully, “But it doesn’t take an expert to know that the Dread Wolf isn’t at the top of anyone’s list in particular. Dalish says it took her a while to place you, but when she did it made her look twice.”

“The Wolf is known for being a touch slow to surface, and even slower to sink in,” Ellana concedes, “He is neither here nor there on any such matter. I am the first of my clan to devote themselves to the Wolf in about three or so generations. There are not many of us and for good reason.”

“Am I going to learn the reason why you chose the Dread Wolf in particular?” The Iron Bull asks.

Ellana turns the question over in her mind, running her thumb over the long gone line she had drawn across the back of her hand years and years ago.

“The Wolf is the god of games and tricks and bargains, among many things. Shall we barter questions or answers?”

The Iron Bull’s eyebrows raise but he is not, she thinks, displeased with the question.

“Questions,” The Iron Bull decides, “It’s more fun that way, I think.”

“Spoken like a Wolf,” Ellana muses.

“Why did you chose the Dread Wolf?” The Iron Bull asks.

It is no particular secret to Ellana, so she gives the answer.

“Because the Wolf is the only one who could give me the world as I wanted it,” Ellana replies. “My turn. Is there a particular reason why you chose  _The Iron Bull_?”

The Iron Bull’s teeth laugh even though he isn’t, “Why do you think?”

“I think,” Ellana says, “That this is an answer that is perhaps not meant to be spoken out loud in such plain terms.”

“You’ve got depths to you, then,” The Iron Bull says, leaning in closer towards her, “Winter is coming. You look like you’re thinking of leaving. Don’t. We’ve got food and supplies and the winter is our busiest season. Lots of trysts to uncover, assassinations to either deal out or crush, take overs and all that shit. We could use some tricks and bargains.”

Ellana’s eyebrows raise and she finds herself leaning towards him, “Are you trying to leash a wolf?”

“Never even dream of it.”

“Ask me again tomorrow,” Ellana says leaning back and pulling out her leather cord to resume her idle work, “And perhaps I will give you an answer. You should have chosen to barter answers, the Iron Bull, if you had such a concrete goal in mind.”

The Iron Bull pushes to his feet, lightly touching her shoulder as he walks past to continue his circuit around the camp, “Nah. Told you. S’more fun this way. Night, Lavellan.”

“Goodnight, the Iron Bull.”


	285. Chapter 285

“Ah, Wolf. It's you.”

Ellana raises her eyebrows as she sets down the supplies Stitches had sent her off with next to the Iron Bull’s bed.

“I see no Wolf, here,” Ellana replies.

“Look in a mirror then, or frozen piss, whichever we have closer on hand,” The Iron Bull replies, “I was wondering who it’d be next.”

“Stitches and Dalish got tired of playing nursemaid,” Ellana says, “I think they think that either you’ll let me tend you because I’m new and you’re trying to get me to stay or that you'll go easy on me because you only do it to fuck with them.”

“And what do you think?” Bull says, voice not that much lower than usual, but there is something of a dullness to his usual sharp edge. It’s hidden beneath even more, now.

“I think that maybe you ought to be more discerning of who you take to bed,” Ellana replies, raising her hand towards his head and waiting for him to signal her.

The Iron Bull raises an eyebrow and gestures for her to begin her examination. Healing will never be her forte, but with the sickness that’s been making its rounds and with the tenacity it’s been going, Ellana thinks that maybe the reason they asked her to start assisting in tending the ill is because  _it might not be sickness_  they’re looking for.

So when Ellana takes her thick glove off to check his temperature - still high, but not as high as some of the others she’s seen today, possible rebound is to be considered - she also weaves a subtle spell to wash over him and check for signs of foul play. It’s unlikely but not entirely out consideration.

The wave of illness struck in the middle of crossing the Emprise, and they’ve been stuck in the same camp for the past week. But before then they were in Sarnia, and while Sarnia is not exactly a center for people and ideas of great import, it is not entirely off the map.

No signs of poison that she can sense. No signs of foul magic, either.

A regular bout of winter colds and such, then.

“Are you judging me?” The Iron Bull asks, incredulous.

Ellana raises her eyebrows as she pulls a cloth from her inner pocket and coaxes him into raising his head so she can put it around his neck to absorb some of his sweat.

“You are a handsome man of healthy appetites and a fair and clear judgement of ethics, who you take to bed is none of my business except for when that person had just recovered from severe fever and cough,” Ellana replies, “Did you consider possibly waiting a week or two to make sure symptoms were clear before taking him to bed?”

“Alright, hindsight and all that shit,” Bull mumbles. “And when you say all those things about me it sounds downright clinical.”

“It is downright clinical,” Ellana replies. “Sit up, if you can. I’m going to undress you.”

The Iron Bull gives her a flat look.

“Do you want to lie down in your own sweat?”

The Iron Bull slowly sits up and Ellana peels off layers of furs and cloth to expose flushed skin, grumbling under his breath.

“Are you feeling up to another round to keep your mind occupied?” Ellana asks, “Or would you prefer silence?”

“Another round,” The Iron Bull replies immediately. “But you start because I can’t think right now.”

“You put me at an advantage then, should I be concerned?” Ellana says as she carefully checks his arm for any marks of magic - just in case. The Iron Bull slowly opens and closes his fingers.

“Nah,” The Iron Bull shrugs a shoulder, pulling his knee up and hunching over, eye closing as Ellana carefully wipes at his skin with cold cloth. “Feels nice, Wolf.”

“Let’s start there, then. Wolf?”

He shrugs again, “Everyone gets a nickname at some point. Wolf suits you fine. You look like one. Sometimes you even act like one.”

Ah, another question to tuck away for later.

“What a fine pair we are then,” Ellana muses, “A wolf tending to a druffalo."

Bull opens his eye to glare at her.

Ellana smiles at him a she slowly moves around to get to his back.

“I changed my mind, get out of my tent,” He says without any real force. He shifts forward to give her more room to work.

His skin is very warm.

“Does it hurt?” Ellana asks. “And that doesn’t count as part of the game. I hope you realize.”

“It feels raw, but it’s good when you put the cold cloth on,” Bull says, “And yeah, I know it’s not part of it. I wouldn’t count it anyway. That’d be kind of unfair to  _me_. That trick you did, when we were knocking some sense into those dumbass noble brats. The one with the lightning in your hair. Where’d you learn that?”

“Trial and error,” Ellana replies. It takes her a second to remember what he means. She’d allowed a small lightning spell to channel through her hair, through the beads and the cords she’d woven through her braids, causing her hair to rise in a static filled wave, undulating and moving on its own. Like deep black snakes. “A lot of error. I’d gotten the idea from a hedge-mage I’d met towards the Anderfels. He’d used lightning over his skin like an armor shell. A last defense, or a very interesting intimidation tactic.”

Bull laughs, “Nice. Can you do that?”

“I could, but I’d prefer to get rid of my enemies before it becomes necessary,” Ellana answers, going around to his other side. The full weight of his attention, now that she’s on his right, feels heavy in the confines of the tent. “Why do you take in mages? I’m sure it’s gotten you in trouble.”

“Every merc band worth paying for has mages,” He says, “You need the leg up. I don’t think I’m the first person to hire you.”

It’s not a question, so it doesn’t need an answer.

“No, but you are the first that is so comfortable with me,” Ellana answers anyway. The last time she had signed on with a band of mercenaries she felt like she was moments away from being either thrown to the Templars or worse. She had made as much coin as she needed and left.

“Are you comfortable with us?” The Iron Bull asks.

Ellana goes to search through his things for new blankets or skins. She’ll clean and air out the other ones after this with the others she’d gathered from the other patients she’s treating with Stitches and Dalish and the other surgeons and healers the Chargers has on their roster.

“Yes,” Ellana says.

After she has the Iron Bull settled again she sits next to him and pulls out the braid she had started. It’s much longer now. It would be useful as a necklace, perhaps. Or maybe some sort of wrap for an arm brace.

She’ll stay until he sleeps. Dalish and Stitches told her that if she was in here no one would bother her, and that she could use the rest. Also that the Iron Bull gets bored very easily if left on his own when he’s sick and it was really best for all of them if she just stayed with him to make sure he didn’t get into any trouble. Apparently he can get very introspective when he has a fever and is stuck in one place for too long.

The Iron Bull snags at her cloak as she’s considering what else she should put into her leather cord.

“Stay with us in spring,” He says. “With the thaw there’s going to be worse shit an we’ll be moving back up towards the North. Might pass through some contested land. We’ll need the help.”

Ellana decides to put a very light enchantment for enhanced durability so she can start working on some deeper magic. If she’s going to make this thing any longer she might as well start investing some serious magic into it.

“Ask me again when spring comes,” Ellana says and the Iron Bull lets out a quiet almost laugh. “Sleep well, the Iron Bull.”

“With the Wolf keeping watch?” The Iron Bull replies, “Can’t imagine another way to sleep.”


	286. Chapter 286

“Well?” Ellana asks as she watches the strange metallic object flare to life with the addition of her mana, “What is it?”

The Wolf is staring at the object, his coat is a dark gray almost black with faint hints of white and his hackles are raised - it would be comical. No it is comical. It definitely is comical. - and his many eyes are narrowed on the sphere, “I do not know.”

Ellana glares at the Wolf, rubbing her arms, “What do you mean you don’t know? You had me come all the way here to activate an unknown magical artifact  _just because?”_

She could have been sleeping in the back of a caravan right now. She could be trading stories with Rocky about experiments gone wrong. She could be learning knew knife techniques from Skinner. She could be playing riddles with Dalish. She could be doing any number of things not here in a cold, musty, damp cave lit only be the green light of a magical artifact.

If she hurries maybe she can catch up to them before they hit the hard roads heading up North towards the sea.

Some of the Wolf’s eyes roll.

“I know what it is, I  _made it_ ,” The Wolf huffs, “I cannot think of a reason why it is reacting the way it is currently.”

“And it’s reacting…?”

“It’s reacting,” The Wolf answers, “It should not be doing anything at all.”

The Wolf circles around the little metal sphere, eyes narrowed, “There is something amiss. There is something I am not seeing.”

“Will you be seeing it any time  _soon_?” Ellana asks. “I want to get back to the others.”

Some of the Wolf’s eyes flick towards her, amused.

“You want to go back to your Iron Bull,” the Wolf laughs, tail swinging jauntily. “Is my little nothing forming roots? Mythal will be most thrilled to have finally gotten her hooks into you, though I imagine that Andruil and Elgar’nan will be most disappointed. Now you will be even more nothing.”

“It’s been almost thirty years since I dedicated my life to you and I still do not know if you are an actual  _toddler_  or a very old nosy man,” Ellana says, “I’m leaving.”

The Wolf follows after her, a presence she can’t feel except for the raising hairs on the back of her neck as she trudges her way back out of the underground caverns and into early morning light.

The Wolf had woken her up two days ago and told her that she had to do something for him. And he had been incredibly pushy and sour about it so Ellana went along.

It is not the first time the Wolf has called her away from her travels, it is not even the first time he’s done it since she’d joined the Chargers a year or so ago. They understand by now.

At first Ellana didn’t say anything about  _why_  she was leaving. Eventually she had confided in Dalish and Dalish had looked skeptical.

(“Dirthamen never sends  _me_  on super special missions,” Dalish said, “I don’t think I’ve ever actually been in Dirthamen’s presence.”

“The Wolf doesn’t have that many people to bother,” Ellana replies, as she ignored the invisible and brooding Wolf that sat on the ground next to her, impatiently twitching his tail waiting for her to leave, “Usually I can forget about him until he comes around looking for something interesting to butt his nose into.”)

“He’s not  _my_  Iron Bull,” Ellana continues.

“But you are  _his_  Wolf,” The Wolf says, “He certainly isn’t referring to  _me_. Though I know not why he calls you Wolf. You are only a wolf when it pleases you and even then you are nothing in wolf’s clothing.”

Ellana rolls her eyes.

“He is a very handsome man,” The Wolf continues, “And clever after a fashion. You are well suited.”

“I dedicated myself to you because  _you aren’t_  the type of god to interfere,” Ellana says, “You don’t even  _care_.”

“No,” The Wolf admits, “But the process of nothing becoming something to becoming everything is incredibly fascinating. Especially when nothing is nothing for so long.”

Ellana scowls, “I am not in love.”

“Of course not,” the Wolf agrees, “That would be most absurd. Nothing cannot love anything.”

“Right, glad we have that settled.”

“But the Iron Bull is most definitely in love with you and he is most certainly something.”

-

“You’re flirting with the Tevinter,” Ellana says, and she can’t help but feel a burst of laughter in her chest when the Iron Bull looks at her - partway guilty, partway embarrassed, and most-ways nervous. “And you’re doing it very poorly.”

“I am not flirting with Pavus,” the Iron Bull says.

“You’re certainly ruffling his feathers,” Ellana concedes nudging him over to make room as she sits down next to him, pressing against his side. “I don’t know why you insist on sitting next to the open window in the middle of the Frostbacks. And still no shirt. You’ve learned nothing over these years.”

He puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her flush against him, “I’ve learned some things. Like that look on your face. Should I stop messing with him?”

“It is very unkind,” Ellana says, closing her eyes, “I do not think Trevelyan would appreciate you hurting her friend’s feelings on purpose, just because you don’t like him. You’re still trying to get her to trust you, after all.”

Trevelyan is still unsettled by Ellana as well. Ellana knows more about the artifact that caused the rift, but Ellana is also a Charger and what most people here think is Bull’s favorite bed partner.

Well. She does share his bed when it isn’t occupied by other people doing things that aren’t sleeping.

“And what about you, Wolf?”

“You know I don’t care about who you take to bed.”

“That’s not true.” The Iron Bull laughs quietly. “You care a whole lot. M’pretty sure I’ve got your lectures memorized by now.”

“Alright, I don’t care about who you take to bed as long as it doesn’t get either you or your partner sick because you’re an actual infant when you’re sick. An infant who likes to brood and gets into philosophical quandaries. Is that better?”

“Sounds about right, yeah. But there’s something else, I know it.”

“I  _suppose_  I also don’t approve of you baiting Dorian Pavus because you don’t mean it, you know that it hurts him, and you know that if he ever  _did_  decide to follow through on a  _hate fuck_  you definitely aren’t big enough to rise above and  _be decent about it_. He brings out the worst sort of pettiness in you and if this entire Inquisition thing is going to actually work you two will need to sort that out eventually.”

The Iron Bull sighs, and his forearm slides over her chest as he closes around her, leaning against her.

“Alright, fine, you’re right. I’ll stop. I was being a dick and we all know it. Damn. When you lay it all out like that…”

“You’re welcome,” Ellana says. “Can we  _not_  be sitting next to an open window now that you’re done being unkind to the person who literally abandoned their country in order to save  _existence as we know it_?”

“Prissy today, Wolf,” Bull says, but he nudges her with his thigh, “Alright, let’s get you to bed.”


	287. Chapter 287

Evelyn finds the Iron Bull sitting by himself at the bar of the Herald’s rest, large form leaning against the well tended wood as he drinks from a very large tankard of ale.

“If you’re looking for Wolf she isn’t here,” he says when she tries to subtly look around him for a sign of the mage, “We aren’t actually attached at the hip. She doesn’t like it when I drink during the day. I think she’s probably poking around the merchant caravans by the main gates.”

“I know you aren’t,” Evelyn says, taking a seat next to him. “Oh, no - I don’t - “

Evelyn is about to say that she doesn’t want a drink at this particular moment but the Flyssa has already put a much more moderate sized goblet in front of her.

“You look like you need it, ma’am,” Flyssa says and then walks away before Evelyn can protest.

“If she’s saying it then it must be true,” Bull says, nudging her goblet with his tankard, “Bottoms up.”

“Right then,” Evelyn says, “She doesn’t like it when you drink?”

“During the  _day_ ,” The Iron Bull stresses, “She doesn’t like a lot of shit that I do. Wolf doesn’t like it when I drink during the day, she doesn’t like me walking around shirtless, she doesn’t like me flirting with other people…”

Evelyn turns the words over in her mind because it wouldn’t make sense for the two of them to be so close if one of them was constantly picking at what seems to make up vast portions of the other’s character.

“Why?” Evelyn asks and the Iron Bull grins around the lip of his tankard. “ _Why_  doesn’t she like those things?”

Evelyn knows that if there is something Ellana doesn’t like, the Iron Bull doesn’t do it. Ellana asked the Iron Bull to stop trying to rip Dorian open like a hang-nail to the root and he did. Ellana asked the Iron Bull to attempt patience with Cole even though he’s unnerved by demons and he did it. Ellana probably asked the Iron Bull to join the Inquisition - Qun and all aside, Evelyn is pretty sure that the Iron Bull would have come just for her.

“Knew there was a reason why Wolf liked you aside from all that magic theory stuff,” the Iron Bull says. “She doesn’t like me flirting with other people in front of her because she thinks it’s  unfair to the person I’m flirting with. It puts them in an awkward position. Even if they  _know_  that she doesn’t care if I’m sleeping with other people. She doesn’t like me walking around shirtless during the winter because usually she ends up being the one taking care of me if I get sick and in her words I turn into a philosophical nightmare that’s best avoided at all costs.”

Evelyn can’t really imagine the Iron Bull as a  _philosophical nightmare_ , but then again Evelyn doesn’t really talk to the Iron Bull that much regarding anything like philosophy or figurative matters.

“And the drinking?”

“Well, she usually has stuff to do during the day that she can’t do if she’s got a buzz going. Alcohol and magic don’t mix, right?” Bull shrugs a shoulder. “You know, I’m going to tell her you asked and she’s going to like you even more. Wolf likes people who dig deep.”

“About that,” Evelyn leans closer to him and lowers her voice, “Is there a reason why you call her Wolf? Isn’t that…sacrilege?”

Bull blinks at her and then laughs, body pushing back from the bar table as he throws his head back. “Relax, Inquisitor. Everyone on my team’s got nicknames. Stitches stitches people up, Grim’s quieter than dirt, you know? And Dalish was taken, so she gets Wolf. No article in front. We’re good.”

Evelyn turns the words over in her head. Because she’s found that things are rarely so topical when you’re dealing with a Qunari  _spy_.

“There are other things to call her,” Evelyn prods, “Aside from the obvious reasons, why Wolf?”

“You mean aside from the many wolf skins she wears?” The Iron Bull responds dryly.

“Aside from those.” Though they are very impressive and intimidating. As is the staff.

The Iron Bull hums, turning his tankard on the bar with slow steady movements of his fingers.

“She’s Wolf because if I called her  _Ataashi_  then she would have run and I’d have never gotten her back,” He says with a gentleness that Evelyn didn’t know he ever really chose to use. “And it’s just stuck since then.”

“Oh,” Evelyn says. “You like her.”

“Yeah, I mean. I hired her.”

“No, I mean.  _You like her_.”

The Iron Bull actually turns around in his stool to look at her, “Are you asking me if I  _like, like her_  like we’re eleven year olds? Yes, Trevelyan, I  _like-like her_  the same way you  _like-like_  your Commander, except neither of us wants to go at it like the two of you do.”

Evelyn sputters and the Iron Bull’s smile is a touch sharp but also genuinely amused as he roughly pats her shoulder and stands up. “You should finish that. Take some time to relax. Breathe. I think Pentaghast was looking for you to complain about Varric.”

-

“So there’s a elf underneath all that wolf after all,” The Iron Bull muses, standing over Ellana and Dalish as they hurriedly rip apart fabric and start arranging things to be re-sewn together. Ellana ignores him as he sits down next to her, watching her work.

It’s summer and Ellana has just gotten back from visiting her clan. Ellana’s normally kept herself to the North during the summer - Orlesian summers are wretched and wet and muggy and the heat is a tangible weight on her chest that makes her feel sluggish and tired.

She’s shed her furs and thrown them into the back of one of the caravans along with the rest of her belongings. She’s also changed out of her normal traveling attire and into a light cotton dress that her cousin had given her when she was up with them. Dalish is wearing one similar and the two of them are working on sewing together pants and tunics with light padding to fight in.

Ellana is not going to be wasting mana on constant cooling and temperature regulating spells in the middle of a fight. That’s ridiculous.

“You seriously do this  _every year_?” Ellana says to Dalish as the woman arranges panels of leather that she had Ellana bring back. No one tans leather like the Dalish masters do.

“I’m not carrying summer gear around all year when we spend most of our time in the mountains or Ferelden,” Dalish replies, “Besides, by the end of the summer this will all be worn down anyway. Watch, you’ll be having to patch something after the next fight and it’ll only go downhill from there.”

“You wanna make me some?” Krem asks.

Ellana and Dalish cast annoyed looks at him.

“You’re the actual professional tailor,” Dalish says, waspish as she turns back to the work in front of her, “You could  _help_  us.”

“Nah,” Even Krem’s switched to a short-sleeved shirt and light trousers.

Ellana shoves her hair out of her face and there’s a light tap on her shoulder. Ellana turns her head to see Skinner handing her a leather thong to tie her hair as the other woman presents Dalish with the measurements from the others.

“Not much change since last summer,” Skinner says, “Thank June. A few of our other Dalish members also got materials back from their clan. I think we’ll be able to make it with what we have. We just can’t make mistakes. I’ll start cutting. I’ve got some of the others ready to go.”

“You actually sew a summer set for  _every single person_?” Ellana asks, baffled. “Ridiculous. What happens after summer?”

“After summer we scrap it to pad our winter gear. You know we need it. Besides, we wear them into the ground, summer is a big season for us. No bad weather so everyone wants to go to war and shit or adventuring or doing dumb stunts in stupid dangerous places,” Krem says, “I’ll consider helping if you make the Chief’s out of plaid weave.”

“We don’t have plaid weave,” Ellana says.

“Thank fuck,” the Iron Bull says under his breath. The Iron Bull is the only one among them who doesn’t seem to suffer from the oppressive heat. Ellana’s envious.

She tugs at the collar of her dress, trying to get some air as she scans the measurements with Dalish. This would be the perfect time for the Wolf to show up and drag her on some sort of quest to inspect a rock or dig up some ancient scrap. Which of course means he won’t show up. Though she feels that she’s due for a visit soon, she hasn’t seen the Wolf since before she left the Chargers to visit her clan.

“Here,” the Iron Bull touches her arm with something and Ellana turns, accepting the water skin gratefully. “Can’t have you passing out before the actual work starts.”

“I regret ever letting anyone see me mending my leggings,” Ellana says.

“You’re Dalish, you’d be dead if you can’t sew,” Skinner replies, “It’s part of the package. Sewing, hunting, trapping, dancing, doing stupid stunts with animals.”

“I feel like I ought to be offended but it’s all very true.”


	288. Chapter 288

"What the actual  _fuck_  is wrong with you, Lavellan?”

It’s the use of her name that makes her mind trip. Ellana blinks hard, and is surprised to see the Iron Bull in front of her, glaring down at her.

Ellanas stares up at him and then he reaches down and touches the back of his hand to her cheek. She blinks again, surprised. His skin is amazingly warm and it’s reflex for her to chase the heat when he takes his hand back.

“And you’re always on  _my_  case for not wearing a shirt? What are you wearing all that fur for if you’re freezing? What are you doing out here?”

What Ellana means to say is  _keep watch_. What actually comes out is nothing because her lips are so cold and she didn’t realize her jaw was pretty much clenched shut to prevent her teeth from chattering.

“Come on,” The Iron Bull gently takes her shoulder and helps her stand up off of the rock she’d planted herself behind and starts guiding her towards the main tents, body angled to block the worst of the wind. Ellana stumbles into his side as they trudge through shin-deep (for her) snow and he pulls her in tighter. “I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re super responsible and smart and shit. Were you about to  _fall asleep in the damn snow?_ ”

Ellana, again, wants to say that no, she was keeping watch and that she wasn’t falling asleep she was meditating.

The Iron Bull pushes her into his tent and there is an immediate difference in temperature.

“I knew something was off,” The Iron Bull grumbles to himself guiding her by the shoulders and sitting her down on his bedding. “You’ve been nodding off during the day. Napping a lot. Have you not been sleeping at night? At all?”

“Habit,” Ellana eventually manages to get out, and from there her teeth can’t stop chattering. The Iron Bull looks briefly alarmed before he looks incredibly pissed.

“You almost dying because you fell asleep in freezing weather is a  _habit_?”

“Stay awake at night. Channel slow mana to keep above freezing. Sleep it off during day. Sun’s out,” Ellana says. There’s a reason why she tends to avoid the worst parts of Thedas during the winter.

“You basically turn yourself nocturnal during the winter, is what you’re saying.” The Iron Bull looks incredibly disbelieving of her which is a little hurtful because she’s never lied to him before.

Ellana does not like the taste of lies and avoids it at all costs.

“Safer,” Ellana protests and the Iron Bull gestures for her to get underneath the covers as he makes sure that the tent is sealed properly against the outside. Ellana curls in deep, and she slowly opens her mana channels to allow more of it to burn through her.

“That was before,” The Iron Bull says, and Ellana feels the graze of that texture he keeps hidden against the back of her mind. “You aren’t alone anymore. And you aren’t with strangers who’d cut you or turn you or whatever. You’re here. With the Chargers. With  _me_. I wouldn’t let shit happen to you or any of my people. And frankly it’s a little hurtful that you didn’t already know that.”

Ellana bites her cheek and she moves when the Iron Bull gets underneath the blankets and furs with her, putting his arm around her shoulders and wrapping a majority of them around her. She can feel the trickle of his heat begin to seep through.

“Listen. You can sleep at night. No one’s going to attack you. You aren’t alone. No one’s gonna let you freeze. And if there’s anything out there in the snow looking to take a bite out of us I’ll be royally pissed off enough that I have to get up and deal with that sort of bullshit weather that I’ll probably cut its head off in one go. Perks of being a reaver, when you get pissed you get better at pissing other things off.”

“Not just you?” Ellana mumbles bringing her hands up to her face to breathe into them. She puts a little extra mana into her breath, not enough for an actual spell, but enough that it heats her breath a little more than it should be.

“Ha-ha,” The Iron Bull intones. “Seriously. I mean it. If you don’t feel easy by yourself then go to Dalish or Skinner or Krem or  _literally anyone_. No. You’re stubborn as shit. You come to me. Got it?”

“An order,  _Chief_?”

“I’m trying to teach an old dog a new trick apparently,” The Iron Bull retorts.

Ellana attempts to kick him but her legs aren’t working properly.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, Wolf,” The Iron Bull huffs. “Go to sleep. Swear I won’t do anything to you.”

“I know,” Ellana says, closing her eyes and focusing on the returning feeling that’s slowly coming back to her. “Thank you.”

“And after this maybe you’ll get off my case about wearing a jacket,” The Iron Bull says as Ellana tucks herself as close as she can to him and buries her face into the scarf she’d put around her neck. She shakes her head a little.

“No.”

“Yeah, shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Worth a shot. Night, Wolf.”

-

He gets the letters about the same time. One from Ellana, one from the Qun.

Ellana’s is short and concise, written in her sharp, quick lettering.

_Go to the Breach. I need you._

It’s sent with an unfamiliar bird and it looks to be written in a rush. The ink is partially smudged and the paper itself is just ripped off of something larger. Her message almost doesn’t even fit. But it’s her.

The Qun’s message is longer. New orders. Make nice with the Inquisition and track the Breach because  _demons_  and magic gone out of control.

Bull’s instincts tell him that he shouldn’t be putting his back to the damn thing, but he also probably shouldn’t be walking right up to it.

Ellana needs him.

The Qun wants him to go.

“Krem,” Bull says, gesturing his lieutenant over. “Take two horses and head to the Inquisition. Bring Skinner. Go fast.”

“Orders, Chief?” Krem asks, pointedly not looking at the paper Bull’s holding.

“Find whoever’s in charge and tell them we’re looking to for work,” Bull says, “Make a show of looking around and shit. Have Skinner scope the place out around back, maybe go in separate. Have her take a look. I want you to see if you can find Wolf. She’s there. See if she needs back up.”

“A jail break?” Krem’s eyebrows raise.

“She’s a Dalish mage, if she was so much as in riding distance of that thing they’re going to think she did it,” Bull says. She didn’t do it. “Don’t piss the Inquisition off.”

“A subtle jail break, then.”

“ _If_  she’s in jail.”

“Right. Got it. What kind of  _job_  are we looking for?”

“It’s a real one. We are looking to hire on with them. We just need to test shit out first.”

“And if  _they do have_  Wolf and  _she is_  in trouble and  _we do_  have to run counter to the Inquisition to get her back?” Krem asks.

Then it’s the Qun or Wolf and Bull isn’t ready to look that particular beast in the jaws just yet.

“We’ll figure it out. We’re moving out tomorrow, I’ll copy down our next location and the details. Tell Skinner to get ready, and check with Rocky and Stitches for stuff you might need.”

Krem nods, mouth and eyes tight with concern and apprehension, “You’re thinking about the worst in general terms, Chief. S’not like you.”

“Get,” Bull says simply with a jerk of his head, “We’re going to be on a tight schedule to get this shit in line.”

“Yessir,” Krem replies stepping backwards, shaking his head, “On it. We’ll bring our girl back, Chief. We’ll bring her back.”


	289. Chapter 289

“Buy that for me.”

“You have your own money.”

Dorian watches the exchange go on as covertly as possible while trying to ignore the several masks not so covertly gossiping about them.

Lavellan frowns very prettily and stomps her heel down on the Iron Bull’s boot toes not so prettily. His boots must be as thick as his head because he doesn’t even respond.

“If  _I_  try and buy it they’ll charge me double or try and accuse me of theft,” Lavellan hisses, “They don’t do that to you. They never do. Buy it for me.”

“Technically, I’m your boss and you shouldn’t be giving me orders like that,” The Iron Bull replies, “Besides, they’ll charge me triple because I’m a dumb  _oxman_.”

“But then you’ll flirt them down to half,” Lavellan says, “Get me the fabric, druffalo.”

“That's hurtful,” The Iron Bull says but subtly turns his hand out and Lavellan slips him a handful of coins, “That’s real hurtful, Wolf.”

“Go cry about it,” Lavellan responds as the Iron Bull turns back and heads down a the neat little cobblestone paved streets towards the crafter’s district. Lavellan catches Dorian’s eye before he can pretend to be interested in the history of Val Royeaux’ orange trees. “He’s going to complain about it for the next two weeks, but he’ll stop after that.”

“Because he’s forgotten?”

“The Iron Bull doesn’t forget anything, I’ll just give him something new to pretend to complain about. Besides, he likes to haggle with the Orlesians. He enjoys getting them hot and bothered,” Lavellan’s eyes turn sharp, “I imagine you know the affect he can have when he’s being particularly… _intense_.”

Dorian is above this, really he is. He should be used to it by now.

But before Dorian can say anything about  _anything_ , Lavellan’s eyes have moved away and she’s looking around with a profound look of open distaste that Dorian can admire. One has to have a certain kind of…something to be able to look directly at what most consider to be the heart of Orlais and visibly deem it unworthy.

“Let’s go,” Lavellan says and without so much as a  _by your leave_  she turns around and walks away. Dorian has no choice but to follow her because for one thing she has a very particular sort of charisma that hooks into you and for another it’s either go with her or stay there and wait for the others to find him and he’d rather not be out and about Orlais alone. “To be frank, I’ve never had a taste for Val Royeaux. It’s too…”

“Shiny? Fake? Pretentious?” Dorian throws out.

“ _Dull_ ,” Lavellan finishes, “Oh, it’s those things too, but overall it’s just  _boring_. Come on. Is this your first time in Val Royeaux?”

“It’s my first time in the South,” Dorian says.

“And I’m sure it’s been very stunning to your sensibilities,” Lavellan replies, “I’m originally from the Free Marches. Orlais has a particular sort of aftertaste in my mouth.”

“Stinking feet and dreadful wine?”

“Aren’t they the same thing in Orlais?”

Lavellan catches Dorian’s eye and he can’t help the commiserate smirk that comes onto his face that matches hers.

Lavellan leads them down streets that get narrower and dirtier until they’re at the very edges of Val Royeaux and Dorian finds himself walking closer to her as buildings get closer together and the more people are found walking and bartering and actually talking in voices that aren’t hushed and behind fans and masks. Oh, there are still masks, but they talk at a normal volume like they don’t care who’s listening. In a completely separate way than the fake way most would speak as if to pretend that you aren’t meant to hear them.

“Now,” Lavellan says, “Let’s do some real shopping. You were working on something that could stabilize the effects of the rifts and the excess Fade energy on the surrounding wildlife, right? Come on, there’s a supplier I know who’s very, very good at procuring good live samples of flora and small fauna - insects, mice, finches. That sort.”

-

“Mahanon,” Ellana says with what she thinks is extreme patience that she’s only been able to learn over several, several years, “I cannot bring a calf with me  _across the sea_  and cart it around southern Thedas. Not only is it irresponsible it’s also downright impossible. Do you know how ridiculously expensive the passage is?”

“It’s taken care of,” Mahanon says as he strokes the velvety black ear of the hart calf that’s sleeping between them. He shrugs. “Think of it as the last gift I’m ever going to give you.”

“That seems ominous. Even for you,” Ellana remarks as the calf snuffles in his sleep, ears flicking. He is incredibly sweet.

“After this I’ll never have to get you a name day gift again,” Mahanon continues, “I’m free for the rest of our lives.”

“Never mind, you’re just being a prick,” Ellana says. “What do you mean it’s taken care of?”

“I have contacts. They’ll get you and the calf across the sea,” Mahanon says, “So you can get back to your…what was his name?  _The Iron Bull_?”

“First of all, he’s not  _mine_ , second, you don’t have to say it like that. I damn well know what a ridiculous name it is,” Ellana says. “Have you considered that this is why I never visit? You’re very judge-y, and I don’t think you should be. How did you even acquire a Tirashan Swiftwind for breeding? Your contacts?”

Mahanon shrugs a shoulder. “I thought he suited you. Besides, think of him as a piece of your roots that can come with you.”

 _Since I cannot_.

“He will need training,” Ellana says, “And equipment. Measurements for a proper Dalish saddle, armor for battle.”

“Send me measurements and I’ll get them to you.”

“What sort of contacts have you made, exactly, Mahanon? You’ve been very vague and mysterious about it and I feel like that’s more the Dread Wolf’s sort of thing and I should be the one doing that to you.”

“The Grey Sister is as mysterious as the rites of spring,” Mahanon replies. “Just know that they pave the way for bounty.”

“I do so hate it when you act all…dramatic. I bet all the da’len think you’re wonderful and mysterious and  _romantic,_ ” Ellana grimaces. “Little do they know that you spent an entire season crying every night in my tent because you were terrified of how many spiders you were swallowing in your sleep. The answer is still  _none_ , Mahanon. Mythal preserve us all, I still can’t believe they didn’t let me punch some sense into Lanvael for putting that idea into your head. Absolute ridiculous  _bullshit_.”

“Oh no, they think  _you’re_  the dramatic, wonderful, mysterious and romantic one,” Mahanon replies, smirking at her, “Ellana Lavellan, devotee of the Dread Wolf, wanderer of Thedas, slayer of demons and dragons, mystical guide who’s walked every path there is and knows the secrets of the Veil.”

“I don’t even know where half of that has come from. I’ve not seen a single dragon, let alone slain one,” Ellana says. “Wait, is this because of that wyvern?”

“Close enough to dragon, I suppose,” Mahanon shrugs. “When do you go back to your Chargers?”

“A few days,” Ellana replies, “I’ll be meeting them closer to the Orlesian Fereldan border and then we’ll head south towards the Graves. Any of your contacts need me to ferry anything?”

“What are you doing in the Graves?”

“Giant slaying.”

“Then no, none of my contacts need you to do anything. Just keep your head attached,” Mahanon answers. “And take the calf with you.”

Mahanon’s voice lowers and his hand rests on hers, their fingers familiar as they fall into spaces that they’ve known since before birth. His eyes are her eyes, just a different light.

“Let his horns become the protective wall of your heart, where these halla cannot.”

Ellana squeezes his hand and thinks of the other types of horns there are in the world.

“Always, brother. Always.”


	290. Chapter 290

“What the goddamn  _fuck_  have you gotten me into?” Ellana breathes, staring in horror at the large familiar green  _rip_  in the sky.

Her hands are tight on Lanval’s reigns, she can hear his loud breathing as they both stare at the rift.

The Wolf is a black massive shadow over them both with his many eyes red and bright and focused on the sky, “We’re too late.”

“What the  _fuck is that_?” Ellana repeats, panic rising in her voice because she can sense something powerful. Something terrible. It feels  _wrong_. It feels  _dangerous._  It feels  _unnatural_  and  _not of this world_  in all the ways that are not meant to exist.

“Whatever it was before, it is not what it is now,” the Wolf replies, “Ellana Lavellan, you must go to it and see what can be done. If that tear is left intended it will grow and it will destroy this world and all who are on it without hope or chance or possibility of recovery.  _Go_.”

Ellana is moving before her brain can even process the words, Lanval - brave, clever, and loyal Lanval - gets himself together under her and continues the steep and dangerous path up towards the mountain in the direction of the tear, the boom of it still echoing in their ears.

She hopes that wherever the Chargers are now that they’re alright and that this is a localized phenomenon.

“Explain to me what I’m going into,” Ellana says as the Wolf seems to glide along side her, “What is that? Why does it have the mark of your magic?”

Like the staff on her back, like the many objects he’s had her seek out and activate, like the several artifacts he’s had her find and check on over the past several years.

All the gods have their artifacts and shrines and rituals, but Ellana doesn’t think she’s ever heard of anyone mentioning a  _bomb_.

Ellana glances up at it and she can see dark shapes swirling about it, like smoke and Ellana feels a familiar slide down the back fo her spine, over her arms.

“Is that the Fade?” Ellana whispers.

“It was I who made the Veil,” The Wolf says, “When we decided to leave this realm to you mortals we each had our roles. June made our palaces in the Fade, Falon’din found us our path, Dirthamen hid our tracks,  _I_  created the barrier between. And  _I_  am the one charged with making sure it holds and keeps us separated.”

“Those artifacts, those spheres - they measured the Veil? And what was that? There? That explosion?”

“I know not,” The Wolf replies, “Ride. If it is still there - it cannot be left alone.”

“Fuck,” Ellana hisses, for lack of anything better to say, “Fuck.”

-

Ellana stirs as the Iron Bull wakes up next to her. She doesn’t hear the sounds of the others around them so it can’t be time to get ready yet.

“Go back to sleep, gonna piss,” The Iron Bull says. And then he kisses her cheek.

Ellana hums, about to drift off again, but then she’s wide awake and her eyes are wide and open.

The Iron Bull is sort of…just frozen still above her, and she can really only see parts of his neck and shoulder because he kissed her cheek and then froze in place.

“Shit,” The Iron Bull says, “Sorry. Habit.”

And then he tries to leave but Ellana quickly reaches out and snags his wrist, closing her fingers around him hard.

“Oh no,” Ellana says, “You don’t run from me. I’m a wolf, remember? You don’t run from wolves.”

“I won’t do it again,” The Iron Bull says, and Ellana is so incredibly stunned that she can’t tell if she’s imagining the panic in his voice or not. “That was…Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I mean - fuck. Fuck.”

Ellana sits up looks him in the eye.

“That was not a habit,” Ellana says. Because the Iron Bull doesn’t just kiss people like that. Not thoughtlessly, not gently, not so…simply.

The Iron Bull kisses people he’s having sex with and he kisses with intent to do something.

Sometimes he’ll even kiss people to annoy them or because it’s a light hearted thing to do.

He’s kissed Dalish on the cheek once or twice after swooping her up into a hug when she does something particularly ingenious. She’s seen him kiss Krem on the cheek in a very obnoxious way that always makes Krem groan and rub his cheek with his wrist and complain about the Iron Bull being a giant softy.

But he doesn’t kiss people the way he just kissed her.

“And you aren’t sorry,” Ellana says. Both of them have the kind of eyesight that lets them see in low light, but Ellana’s is a little better than his and she can see in very good detail the expression he’s making.

“Yes, I am. I didn’t ask and you never said yes,” The Iron Bull says.

“Ask me then.”

“No. I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Ellana’s eyebrows raise.

“I…shouldn’t,” The Iron Bull rephrases. Grudgingly. “Wolf, drop it.”

He pulls his wrist but Ellana does not let go.

“Order me to and I will,” Ellana challenges, tilting her chin up defiantly. Because…

Because she wants to know why this feels like such a big deal. Because she wants to know why the Iron Bull kissed her so perfectly plainly. She wants to know why she wants him to do it again and again and again in little moments like that where he’s leaving his -  _their_  - bed in the middle of the night to go pee.

Because she knows exactly why and she thinks that she’s known for a while now.

“I shouldn’t, Wolf,” The Iron Bull says, “Lavellan. I won’t do it again.”

“Won’t? Or shouldn’t? Why won’t you kiss me again?”

The Iron Bull’s jaw is clenched and he looks away, he turns his eye away from her. She is not a problem that will go away if removed from sight. He’s often said that to her.

“I want you to kiss me again,” Ellana says softly.

The Iron Bull turns back to look at her, eye piercing deep into her and she feels the rise of the unnamed texture of him coming to the surface. Smooth and rough and warm like sand. Like leather, but fresher. Sleeker. Alive.

“Not…the way you’re thinking,” Ellana says slowly. “But like just now.”

Like it was nothing, but actually everything.

“I can’t do that, Ellana,” The Iron Bull says, and his voice is very low and very soft. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you haven’t said yes, and you won’t say yes.”

“Ask me and find out.”

“You would be saying yes without knowing all the facts. That - for this - with  _you_  - I can’t accept that yes.”

“Then give me the facts.”

The Iron Bull falls silent and this time she lets him pull his wrist away. That unnamed texture is just underneath his skin, ready. Ellana wants to run her nail down the center of his chest and cut it open and free.

“I’ll come back,” He says. “I know not to run from wolves.”

Ellana doesn’t say anything, and he slowly turns around and leaves the tent. She listens to him walking away, over packed dirt and then through grass and then gone. And then she listens to him come back.

His eye holds hers as he sits next to her, across from her, not on their bedding any more but on the ground.

“I cannot ask you if you’d consent to me kissing or touching you like that because it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’d say yes to that kind of soft intimacy because you want it from  _me_ , but you don’t know who I am. What I’ve done, what I do. And I - I can’t let you say yes without knowing that.”

“And who are you?”

“I am an agent of the Qun, a spy,” The Iron Bull says. “I do not have a name, the Iron Bull is just a cover I chose when I came here, and the Chargers are also a cover for the information I gather and the missions I complete.”

“Oh.” Ellana blinks. Stunned. And then.  _Not_  stunned. “Alright.” She nods. “Now ask me.”

And that texture that had been hiding underneath all that fake and not so fake disguise of a light-hearted fool (because the Iron Bull  _is_  most definitely a fool, but not in the way he pretends to be) fully rises to the surface and Ellana can see it clearly. And she can understand its familiarity. It does not change the shape of him in her eyes, it just makes things make more sense.

“You’re not surprised.”

“Oh, I’m very surprised,” Ellana replies.

“You don’t look it.”

“And you don’t look like a spy, so what’s your point?” Ellana retorts. “Ask me, now that I know.”

The Iron Bull frowns, “I actively gather current intelligence and assist the Qun in infiltrating the south.”

Oh. He’s very serious about this.

“Do you think,” Ellana says very slowly, “That the Dalish survived this long because we’re very good at playing nice with nature? The Qun doesn’t have a monopoly on  _spies_.”

And then, very quickly -

“I am not one, mind you, but I was considering it for a while and I became a bit bored with the training. But the network exists and I’ve occasionally assisted them in their tasks. I’ve also, occasionally, given them tasks.” Ellana would not be surprised that Dalish, herself, was once part of the network, actually.

That would explain why Mahanon seems to know everything about Ellana’s life with the Chargers despite her infrequent letters back.

The Iron Bull’s expression hasn’t changed but she has a distinct impression that he’s pleased and deeply intrigued.

“Hidden depths, Wolf,” He says lowly.

“Ask me,” Ellana repeats.

“Ellana Lavellan, do I have your permission to kiss you and shit?” the Iron Bull asks.

“Yes,” Ellana answers immediately. “Now get back under here so we can go to sleep.”


	291. Chapter 291

“You’re going to either have to double back or we’re going to have to figure out a really long detour north,” Ellana says a she examines the map on her phone. The lights of the police and clean up crew are barely visible in the rain.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Bull says, distracted as he tries to figure out where traffic is going, “I do that.”

Ellana blinks. She turns around but Cole has fallen asleep, head resting against the window and Dagna slumped against his side, mouth slack and drooling a little.

She turns back to the Iron Bull who’s leaning forward and squinting to try and see through the rain.

“Babe,” Ellana says slowly.

“Yeah?”

“Did you just say… _I do that_ , in response to me laying out our options,” Ellana asks, “Like we’re in a campaign and not in real life trying to navigate a real in person, out of character, situation?”

The Iron Bull turns to look at her, “Uh…?”

“You did,” Ellana says more to herself than to him, “Oh my god, you did.  _You literally_  reacted to a real life situation as if this was DND.  _I do that_. I can’t wait to tell Sera, this is hilarious.  _I do that_. Do what, babe? It was a two prong question,  _oh my god_.’

Bull groans, “Can we just focus on getting back on the right road? Come on navigator. Get me there. You can give me shit for it later.”

“I can give you shit for it now, I’m a multi-tasker and I did ask you an actual question. Double back or figure out a weird detour?”

“I’m not in a good lane to be doubling back,” The Iron Bull says, “Weird detour.”

“Alright, on it then. Do you want to roll for insight on this one?”

“Ha, ha, you’re not cute.”

“Ha, ha, you definitely are.  _I do that_ , classic.”

-

“We’re trying something different with this campaign,” Sera announces, “I saw this on a blog. We’re trying it. Everyone check the link I sent you, this is how we’re deciding what we roll as this time.”

“Do I, the DM, get a say in this?” Bull asks as he reads over Cullen’s shoulder to see the list.

“No,” Sera replies.

“Okay, but like, a lot of these are based on if we can beat our DM at anything and I think it’s readily established that we cannot,” Dorian says. “That said, I’m a sorcerer.”

“Is it the several antique empty wine bottles you emptied or that incredibly old antique of self-loathing and shame passed down from father to son?” Sera asks.

“Neither, it’s a signet ring,” Dorian replies, “Also it’s an insane amount of worldly goods. Nice try, Sera. If I was going to talk about my feelings I would’ve said I’d be a barbarian and this entire campaign would be me trying to throttle anyone I could get my hands on.”

“Wouldn’t we all be warlocks?” Cullen asks, “That’s poor party composition.”

“Just because we all work in positions of power doesn’t mean we all have to pick warlock,” Sera says, “You’ve got a life, pick some other detail. You can’t be that boring, Cullen.”

“Do not all be warlocks,” the Iron Bull stresses, “This campaign  _is not meant_  to be handled by a group of spell casters only. I cannot emphasize that enough. Just don’t fucking do it.”

“I suppose I’ll just be a commoner,” Cullen says, looking a little embarrassed.

“Oh, fuck’s sake,” Sera rolls her eyes, “You’re a damn paladin or cleric, you dumbass. Someone’s got to talk to you about your self-perception or something. Lavellan, what’ve you got?”

“Rogue,” Ellana says immediately.

The Iron Bull pointedly holds up his dice. “Right. No.”

“No, I’ve got this,” Ellana says. And then she leans across the table and kisses him.

The Iron Bull is still holding the die. “Cute. Again,  _no_.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah?”

Ellana holds up identical dice, “You sure those aren’t my dice, babe? Because your dice box is emptied out.”

Everyone goes to look at Bull’s dice box, which as they discover, is indeed empty.

“There’s no proof that these aren’t my dice in my hand right now,” Bull says.

“Oh yeah?” Ellana grins. “Eat one.”

“What?” Dorian turns to stare at her and Sera takes one of the dice and licks it.

“Fucker, these are the candy dice Malika made you for Saturnalia,” Sera says, “Fuck off, yeah, she’s a rogue this time.”

Bull sighs, “Can I get my dice back?”

“I’m a rogue,” Ellana beams.

“You’re something alright.”

-

“I don’t understand how you could have lost all of your D6’s, they’re standard with literally every game,” Dorian says.

“I have a baby at home,” Cullen replies, “And sometimes she sees my dice and thinks they’re pretty.”

“And she  _eats them? What does she do with them_? Cullen, are you an irresponsible parent?”

“What? No! She doesn’t  _eat_  them. She just…puts them in places I can’t get to because she’s got little hands,” Cullen replies. “Also she’s very good at getting into things she’s not supposed to get into. I don’t know how but she keeps getting into my locked drawers and boxes.”

“A Jenny in training,” Sera says, “I’ll let you borrow some of mine just for that.”

“Please do not decide to take my daughter under your wing as a Jenny, can you wait until she’s thirteen?” Cullen asks.

“Maybe,” Sera concedes.

“Are we here to talk about Cullen being a baffled dad or are we here to play?” Bull replies. “And Lavellan, I love you, but you better pick a damn character voice and stick with it this time. I’m not kidding. I can’t sit through another session of you randomly switching voices mid-sentence because  _it doesn’t feel right_.”

“I can only do what my heart tells me,” Lavellan intones.

“And your heart is telling you to knock it off,” Bull says, “Alright. Who needs a recap? And does everyone have their character sheets and cards? By everyone I mean Sera. I’m not here to remember everything for you.”


	292. Chapter 292

"Lady Trevelyan.”

Maker, he has such beautiful eyes. Max has brown eyes too, but Evelyn is entirely certain that there’s no one else in the world who has brown eyes like Commander Rutherford.

“Lady Trevelyan?”

They’re just so…warm. And nice. And wonderful. Evelyn isn’t sure what words she could use to describe them other than those. She studied science and mathematics, not prose and poetry. She’s regretting it a little, now. Because all she can think of to describe his eyes are  _worried_  and  _amused_  and  _unnerved_  and -

Wait.

“Lady Trevelyan?” Commander Rutherford repeats, eyes going between her and something past her. “Are you - Lady Trevelyan, are you quite alright?”

Andraste, Evelyn, think of something,  _quickly_  -

“Sorry. I was thinking about - “  _Don’t say his eyes._  “Max.”

Oh. Of course, Evelyn, make him think you’re a damn right loon, zoning out thinking about your cousin of all things.

“Right,” The Commander says, sounding exactly as skeptical as he should be, “There’s. Ah. You should possibly turn around, lady. It seems there’s a…situation that requires your attention.”

“Everything requires my attention these days,” Evelyn repeats, but she does turn around because she can hear something -

Evelyn blanches.

“This has been…a  _riveting_ conversation, Commander,” Evelyn says, wide eyed as she stares at what’s apparently been going on behind her for…perhaps too long, “I mean it. Absolutely riveting and I want you to know what I would love to continue this conversation at a later time and I am not, by any means, trying to get away from you,” She really, really isn’t, “But there is indeed a situation that requires my immediate and urgent attention.”

“Of course,” she hears him say and damn it all he sounds like he’s laughing but also very worried and it’s an unfair way for someone to sound, especially someone with eyes that particular unique depth of brown.

But Evelyn is also about to go from being the only dragon rider with  _two_  dragons to being a dragon rider of  _zero_  dragons. Maker, and she’d only just bonded with Ellana and Mahanon  _two weeks ago_ , Evelyn is probably the shortest lived dragon rider in history.

“How long have they been going at it?” Evelyn asks one of the watching scouts.

“Since they came in from their morning flight, ser,” He responds, staring at Evelyn’s twin dragons as they  _literally try to get themselves killed_ , “I. Uh. I think they want that rock.”

“Andraste’s flaming garters,” Evelyn breathes out as she watches Ellana and Mahanon hiss and trill and make low piercing noises, fins and spines raised as they try and  _intimidate_  the Iron Bull into getting off of a rock and moving.

The Iron Bull blinks his one large eye at them but otherwise doesn’t do anything. If anything he looks entertained by this.

Mahanon rises up to his full height, which is actually rather impressive. Evelyn forgets how large her dragons actually are when they aren’t holding themselves low to the ground and tangling themselves up like knots.

Mahanon’s spines flare out along his neck and back as he screeches at the Iron Bull.

Ellana’s mouth is beginning to curl with black poisonous gas.

The Iron Bull calmly unfolds one large wing and  _pushes_  them, very gently, away from him, leaving huge troughs of snow as Evelyn’s two dragons screech in protest.

Evelyn pushes through the crowd and runs up to her dragons as they shake off the snow and look ready to pounce.

“There are other rocks,” Evelyn pleads, trying to get a handhold on either of them - as if she could stop two full grown dragons from getting their necks snapped by one very large, much more matured dragon - as they drag her with them, “Maker - it’s not your rock. We’re on a  _mountain_  there are  _tons_  of other rocks here to pick from. Just  _find another place to lie down_.”

The two dragons stop, their spines and frills still half-raised and their necks lowered and shoulders hunched like they’re going to pounce.

But they stop.

And Evelyn breathes out a sigh of relief.

The Iron Bull lowers his head and curls up for a morning nap. He needs it, really. His flight would have been going against the wind at impressive speed to have reached them in Haven so soon after she contacted them at the Storm Coast.

Mahanon turns to look at his sister. Ellana trills, the tallest frills on her head momentarily perking up as if she’s asking a question. Mahanon clicks several low sounds. Ellana snips at him. Mahanon growls and snips back. Ellana raises up higher on her back legs and stomps her wings downwards into the snow in response. Mahanon also rises up but uses his wing-claw to push her back.

Ellana’s entire neck frill - going all the way down to her shoulders - suddenly bursts open and she screeches in Mahnon’s face. Evelyn screams out in surprise and lets go of her. stumbling into Mahanon’s chest. Mahanon reflexively curls his arm around her, his wing blocking Evelyn from seeing more.

Mahanon blinks, eyes wide, stunned and silent.

Ellana darts off towards the Iron Bull, and before anyone can really process what’s happening, she’s climbing up him and she’s draped herself across his back, her long arms stretched over him, the pearly white skin of her wings fanned out.

The Iron Bull raises his head and looks at her, baffled, before blowing a strong gust of air at her.

Ellana determinedly flattens herself down over the Iron Bull’s back, and the claws on the fingers at the top of her wings flex threateningly.

“That’s not what I mean by share,” Evelyn croaks out in horror.

The Iron Bull raises up a little to try and get her to slide off, but Ellana quickly raises her wings and hooks the tips of her fingers into his shoulders in warning, the leathery skin of her wings underneath seem to harden casting off an almost blinding light. Her tail lashes quickly and the Iron Bull rears up further to try and dislodge her.

Mahnon, not to be outdone, immediately shoots forward and wedges himself underneath the Iron Bull’s belly and winds between his forelegs.

The Iron Bull looks around quickly, just as baffled as everyone else is, between the dragon that’s covering his back and is defiantly letting curls of poison gas float up from her snout, and the dragon that’s flattened himself to the rock underneath him.

“Cousin,” Maxwell’s voice says.

Evelyn doesn’t turn to look at him. “Were you watching the entire time, Max?”

“I think I’m starting to understand why they chose you as their rider,” Max says, “They’re sore losers.”

“Shut up, Max,” Evelyn replies, heart pounding as she waits for what the Iron Bull is going to do next.

The Iron Bull lets out a low, low rumble and lowers himself back down. Mahanon growls as the Iron Bull redistributes his weight over him to avoid crushing the narrower dragon.

Ellana coos, pleased with her arrangement as she settles in for some sun-bathing.

Everyone breathes out a collective sigh of relief. Maxwell claps Evelyn on the shoulder.

“Well. You’ve still got two dragons. Congratulations, for a second there I thought you’d be back to zero.”

“Shut. Up. Max.”


	293. Chapter 293

"We really do need to consider the possibility that Ellana might clutch,” Maxwell says peeling an apple while leaning against some crumbled wall. Dorian is lying down behind him, reading a large tome that Maxwell’s propped up for him with some rocks. Dorian makes a low sound in the back of his throat like he’s laughing. “I mean it, cos, Ellana is basically one third of the flight and you know if she’s grounded Mahanon isn’t going to want to fly as far away from her and if  _Mahanon_  doesn’t want to fly far from her then Dorian isn’t going to be especially happy with me when you make us go out to the farthest fields to gather…I don’t know. Pollen samples.”

The red dragon moves his head like he’s rolling his eyes and turns a page with a very precise claw-tip as he resumes reading.

“Ellana isn’t going to clutch,” Evelyn says, “I don’t want to think about Ellana having a clutch right now, Max.”

“Listen, Evelyn,” Maxwell says, offering his apple peel to Dorian who primly takes it from Maxwell’s hand with a delicacy Evelyn wishes Mahanon would show her and swallows the entire thing whole.

Evelyn’s not so sure that red dragons have molars.

“Evelyn, listen to me and stop pacing,” Maxwell repeats more firmly. Evelyn stops pacing, but that doesn’t mean she’s listening and she hopes he knows that. “The Iron Bull and Ellana are very close and we all know that the Iron Bull is very… _amorous_. There is a high possibility that they might clutch.”

“I don’t ever want to consider this for so many reasons,” Evelyn says, barely resisting the urge to put her hands over her ears and take extra loudly like she’s five, “Why are we even talking about this? Maybe we should be worried about  _Dorian_  siring a clutch! I mean, he’s a very handsome dragon and incredibly smart, why don’t we focus on him?”

Out of the corner of her eye Evelyn sees Dorian raise his elegant neck very slowly and turn to Maxwell. If dragons had eyebrows, Dorian’s would be all the way up his skull and onto his horn ridges.

Maxwell’s mouth is hanging open and he turns to Dorian saying, “Listen. It’s not about you. It’s about her and her denial. I swear to you that she’s normally not this stupid. Evelyn, listen.  _Listen_. Dorian? Siring a clutch? That’s never going to be a problem. Trust me. In fact, I’m going to make this easy for you because I know you’re very absorbed in trying to save the world and all, but you don’t have to worry about Mahanon ever siring a clutch either. Those two? Set for life. No clutches. Ever.”

“What? Why?”

“ _Evelyn_ , focus. Use that indomitable focus or what-have-you that Solas is always commending you on. This is about Ellana and the Iron Bull. If those two clutch I’m wagering that Ellana’s is the dominant gene and we’re going to have maybe four or five screaming hatchlings scurrying about Skyhold. What do we do in that eventuality? Can we convince Mahanon to fly you solo?”

“Maxwell,  _you_  listen, I’m not going to think about this,” Evelyn says. “Why? One, it’s the literal end of days, my dragons are smart enough to know  _now is not the time_  to be having babies. Two,  _Ellana is like my sister_. I don’t ever want to think about the possibility of someone I’m related to having relations. Just like I will never, ever, in my life, Maxwell,  _ever_  want to know anything about anything that happens behind closed doors in your relationships as long unless you are in trouble of some sort. Three,  _please don’t make me think of the semantics of Ellana and the Iron Bull having hatchlings_.”

-

They’ve just made it into the courtyard when there’s a loud crash of stone and a high pitched screaming.

Evelyn staggers, closing her hands over her ears as Dorian quickly takes his place above her, Vivienne, Varric, and Cassandra, casting a barrier over them. She can feel the heat building up off his scales as he prepares to cast out a stream of flame.

A large, jagged and unnatural shape comes smashing through fragile walls.

Evelyn can’t comprehend the shape of it, at first. It moves all wrong, and all of its limbs are strange and distorted. Some sort of red lyrium, creature, she thinks.

But then it comes closer, tearing through demons as it screams and lashes out with sharp lyrium jagged claws and tail.

At this distance through Dorian’s barrier and the distortions of the rifts around them Evelyn can see gray, sickly flesh lit up by the glow of red lyrium. It’s back is hunched and covered in huge juts of it, piercing through flesh. It has two heads, one low to the ground and one high.

It’s a dragon. It’s a lyrium infested dragon.

Evelyn feels sick looking at it. The higher head screams out and the one lower head vibrates, rotted black-red spines quivering as it seems to scent the air.

And then the screaming head stops screaming, and it looks straight at Evelyn.

The dragon charges, Dorian releases a blast of flame and Evelyn hears Vivienne’s sword coming to her hand. Varric releases several bolts that the dragon ignores.

“Shit,” Varric swears and she hears him reloading.

“Brace yourself,” Cassandra says, putting a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder to intercept.

But as the dragon comes charges closer and closer, Evelyn’s mind prickles with some strange understanding.

The dragon barrels through Dorian’s flame, screaming but somehow not caring about the pain, its claws scraping over stone as it unevenly lopes towards them.

And then it stops. Right at the barrier.

And it lowers down onto its belly.

And both its heads go still, except for the quivering of the spines on the second head.

The head that was screaming is silent, but its head keeps moving, jittering about, like it’s trying to hear.

And Evelyn recognizes those movement.

And this close Evelyn can recognize the shape of this dragon. These  _dragons_.

Evelyn pushes past Cassandra and out of the barrier, ignoring Vivienne and Dorian’s surprised cry of protest.

“What did they do to you?” Evelyn says, not hesitating for a second as she runs up to  _her dragons_ , who both push their heads into her arms.

Mahanon’s head is the one with the rotted spines - but still working enough for him to hear-sense her. Because he’s been blinded. Lyrium has grown over and through his eyes, encasing most of his head except for parts of his snout.

And Ellana has lost her head and neck frills and spines altogether. She can’t hear-feel, not like before. Her eyes still work.

The two dragons are fused. Not well. Evelyn examines them and tries to puzzle them out. It looks like wherever they were, they were stuck together and the lyrium grew  _through them_  and merged them into one lopsided creature. Ellana must have been half-on top of Mahanon, which is why her part is leveraged higher.

“I’m sorry,” Evelyn says, throat closing up and chest tightening.

She did not grow up with these dragons, these were her dragons for less than a season. Two months at the most.

But Evelyn could never, would never, have imagined any sort of suffering like this for them. Maker, is it cruel for her to have wished they died? Like the others?

“Is that - ?” Cassandra calls out.

“Chill, Sparkler,” Varric says, “Those are her dragons. Yeah. I know. It’s not…good.”

“There were rumors that the Venatori kept them for experimentation. Or torture,” Vivienne says, voice surprisingly gentle, “The rumors stopped a while back. I thought that meant that they had…passed.”

Mahanon’s jaw is fused shut, and with horror Evelyn realizes the lyrium has grown through his jaw entirely, piercing and clamping it closed permanently. But he lets out a low grumble as he pushes his nose at her. The remains of his spines and frills vibrate.

Ellana’s head continues to look around, ducking between nudging Evelyn and searching around them.

“I’m sorry,” Evelyn repeats, “I’ll - I’ll make this right. I won’t let this happen to you. I won’t.”


	294. Chapter 294

Evelyn watches, confused, as Mahanon suddenly tucks his wings in close to himself and plummets downwards, wings opening again as he turns around and flies back to Skyhold. Ellana’s course holds steady as she continues to fly out.

Evelyn twists around on Ellana’s back, calling out to Mahanon who ignores her.

“What are you doing?” Evelyn asks her dragon as Ellana’s neck frills and spines raise. Evelyn can’t hear anything over the sound of the wind and Ellana’s wings occasionally beating downwards, the ribbon-like appendages moving like a wave through the air as she glides. “Ellana?”

Ellana’s head tilts to the side and she glances up. Evelyn follows Ellana’s line of sight as Ellana tilts and catches herself on an updraft and slowly gains altitude. Out of the clouds a familiar, dark shape descends at the same time.

“Oh no,” Evelyn whispers to herself. “Ellana, if you and the Iron Bull are going off to do…whatever it is the two of you do when you aren’t at Skyhold, I don’t want to be here for it. Call Mahanon back right now. I mean it. I really mean it, Ellana, listen to me this time, for once,  _please_.”

Ellana, predictably, ignores her.  Not so predictably, she suddenly flies upwards, forcing Evelyn to flatten herself to Ellana’s back and hold on tight lest she fall off. Ellana doesn’t stop gaining altitude until she’s flying over the Iron Bull and then she angles herself just a little, making a low chirrup that Evelyn can feel with her knees.

“What?” Evelyn asks, “Now you’re listening to me? What is it?”

Ellana does a barrel roll. Evelyn is used to it enough by now that she manages to hold on and position herself on reflex, but she does swallow a surprised scream.

When Ellana is flying level again, she lowers herself down, closer to the Iron Bull’s back. As close as she can, Evelyn wagers, before things get dangerous and their wings start interfering with each other.

Ellana tilts herself slightly again and pointedly jerks her head down.

Evelyn looks over the side of Ellana’s neck and shoulder down at the Iron Bull.

“ _Cullen_?” Evelyn yells down, “What are you doing?”

Cullen, from this distance, is a glittering shape of armor on the Iron Bull’s broad back. She can’t se his face but she can hear, just barely over the wind and the sounds of dragon wings Cullen yell back, “Inquisitor? What’s going on?”

Ellana pitches up again and Evelyn has no choice but to hold on and focus as Ellana loops upwards giving the Iron Bull space for him to adjust for descent.

The Iron Bull and Ellana land on a relatively level and clear bit of mountain.

Ellana promptly tips Evelyn off.

The Iron Bull lowers himself and carefully tilts to his right to allow Cullen a quicker climb down. As soon as Cullen is clear the Iron Bull stands back up, shakes his great mass and and stretches out his wings before turning to go and investigate what looks like a cave formed by a landslide of some sort.

Ellana is sitting on her hind quarters, and she gestures for Evelyn to go on.

“Go on  _where_?” Evelyn asks, turning to Cullen as he approaches, “What happened? Do you know what this is about?”

“I was hoping you would,” Cullen says, “I was walking the battlements with Rylen discussing our distribution of troops around the wastes when Dorian flew low overhead and snatched me up. He dropped me on the Iron Bull’s back and now here we are.”

Whatever it is, Dorian’s in on it too.

“Maxwell?” Evelyn asks, watching as Ellana goes to join the Iron Bull, stopping every few yards to look over her shoulder at them, her long neck twisting to give her a few view of them but also making her look like a strangely excited puppy.

“I didn't see him on Dorian’s back,” Cullen replies, “If he was there he wasn’t responding to me.”

Evelyn waves at Ellana to come back, Ellana sits down again, curling her tail around her fore claws as she plays with it -  _nervously_  - and looks at the Iron Bull and then back at them again.

“If you wanted privacy you shouldn’t have brought company!” Evelyn yells, turning back to Cullen. “I’m…Well. I was flying with Mahanon and Ellana and then Mahanon took off and then there you were. I’m…considering that maybe I should have heeded Maxwell’s advice to plan for the eventuality of Ellana and the Iron Bull breeding.”

Cullen’s eyebrows raise, a mixture of both skeptical and incredibly amused by the idea.

Ellana’s chirping draws their attention again. Ellana is gesturing for them to move closer together.

Evelyn stares at her dragon. Her dragon stares back, and somehow looks  _confused_. She then starts squawking at the Iron Bull until he turns around, blinks at them, and shrugs before returning to his investigation of the area. Ellana seems very offended by this because she smacks his hind quarters with her tail. The Iron Bull, predictably, responds by knocking her into the snow with his own tail.

“I honestly have no idea why they brought you here,” Evelyn admits, turning back to Cullen. “I’m very sorry you’re stuck with me while this is being sorted out, though.”

Why do her dragons always have to embarrass her in front of Cullen? They don’t do these kinds of things in front of…say…the Empress of Orlais. Or the King of Ferelden.

Just in front of  _Cullen Stanton_ (Evelyn is secretly a little giddy about learning this little fact about him and it is incredibly childish and Evelyn is also profoundly horrified by how…immature this crush of hers is)  _Rutherford_.

“I…what are friends for, apparently?” Cullen replies wryly, shrugging one shoulder. Evelyn gives him a small smile.

There’s a loud  _whuff-_ ing close by and Ellana turns to see that Ellana has come back closer and looks upset.

“What is it  _now_?” Evelyn groans as Ellana comes closer and nudges Evelyn in the back and then nudges Cullen’s back. She keeps nudging them with her bony knuckles until the two of them are standing side by side. And then Ellana nudges them some more until they turn to be face to face. “Ellana?”

Cullen abruptly starts coughing, turning a bright, brilliant red from the tips of his ears to his cheeks.

“I think, Lady Trevelyan, you might want to look  _up_ ,” Cullen says.

Evelyn looks past Ellana to see the Iron Bull. He’s made a circle with the fingers on his forepaws and is inserting his tail into it. He stops when she’s looking, points at Cullen, then points at her.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Evelyn feels all the blood draining from her face. The earth might as well open her up right now.

Could she summon a rift to take care of her? Could she?

Ellana turns around and then spits a small flicker of lightning at the Iron Bull. It dissipates before it reaches him and the Iron Bull tosses his head the way someone would roll their eyes. He laughs and lies down, spreading out his wings to sun himself.

Ellana nudges Evelyn until Evelyn is looking at her. Ellana shakes her head once and then taps herself underneath her chin.

“Did you bring me here to set me up with  _Cullen_?” Evelyn whispers, mortified and keenly aware of the fact that Ellana is basically arranging her and Cullen like toy dolls to stand front to front.

Ellana nods.

“Well,” Cullen sounds strained, “I. Ah. I’m not sure what I should say to this situation, Inquisitor.”

“Only that you’ll forget it immediately,” Evelyn responds.

Ellana squawks.

“Quiet, you.”

Ellana clicks loudly and bounds over to the Iron Bull, gesturing for Evelyn to watch her as she smacks the Iron Bull’s side with her tail. The Iron Bull lazily raises his head and Ellana ducks down quickly and clamps her teeth around the small patch of vulnerable soft scales underneath the Iron Bull’s chin.

Ellana releases the scales quickly and gestures at Evelyn.

“Are we here for  _me_  or for  _you_?” Evelyn asks, stomping over, “I’m not getting it.”

Ellana points at herself and chirps, confused.

“Yes,  _you_. Are we here for you and the Iron Bull to… _you know_ , or what?”

Ellana looks at Evelyn, then at Bull, then back to Evelyn and chirps again.

The Iron Bull sighs, a hot release of air that causes the snow around them to start steaming and dissolving. He raises his head, arching up higher and clamps his teeth around the back of Ellana’s neck, just underneath her spines where her head meets her neck. Ellana freezes, spines and frills raising slowly as he lets go and lies down again.

The Iron Bull grunts. Ellana stares at him and then spits a glob of greenish-black acid at the snow next to him. The Iron Bull laughs.

Evelyn feels as though she’s missing out on something.

Ellana nudges the Iron Bull’s shoulder until he raises his neck enough for her to bite the scales underneath again. Ellana does this and keeps looking at Evelyn pointedly.

“This would go so much faster if you would just learn  _telepathy_ ,” Evelyn says. Because apparently Maxwell can’t ever get Dorian to shut up.

Ellana stomps her hind legs.

“You’re right, it is very hard for you and I’m sorry,” Evelyn concedes. “But I don’t understand what you’re trying to get me to do.”

Ellana puts one claw on Evelyn’s shoulder and slowly turns her around and shoves her at Cullen again.

Cullen looks…entirely too amused by this situation. Even if he’s a very handsome shade of pink right now. Evelyn gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

Ellana keeps prodding her until she’s standing next to Cullen again.

And then Ellana takes Evelyn’s hand and she takes Cullen’s hands and she hits the together until Evelyn and Cullen are holding hands and  _oh_.

“Is this supposed to be a date for me and Cullen?” Evelyn asks.

Ellana makes a very proud series of chirps and when Evelyn looks she’s gone back to the Iron Bull, climbing over his back so she can spread out and sun herself also.

“I suppose…we might have been going too slow for her taste,” Cullen muses, cautiously squeezing Evelyn’s hand. Evelyn squeezes back, much less cautiously.

“In my defense, it’s not like there’s the time to go about courting,” Evelyn says. “And we went spoken since the battlements.”


	295. Chapter 295

“Mahanon, we need Ellana," Evelyn says, hand curled around one of the spines close to Mahanon’s jaw, “We need her acid to break through. We have people in those cells.”

Mahanon blinks very slowly at her and moves to try and break through himself. Evelyn barely drags him back and it’s only because he lets her.

“Acid. Stealth. Not lightning,” Evelyn repeats. “I know you want to get out of here but we have to do this slow. The others are around front distracting the main Avaar forces, but they will definitely come over here if they hear you breathing out lightning and bringing down the stone. That would also probably  _kill_  the people we’re trying to rescue and we’re trying to get the Inquisiton to actually like us, remember?”

Mahanon shakes his head like he’s trying to get rid of something annoying and he scratches behind his frills, making soft irritated noises.

She runs her palm along the side of his neck and feels him lean into her.

“I know, I know, soon. We’re almost done, alright? Then we can go back to Haven and you can roll around in the snow and use Bull as your personal sun-rock.”

This bog smells terrible, she thinks the fumes from the rotting dead and the rotting vegetation and just the general damp rotting  _everything_  is making her dragons sick. That combined with the constant bombardment of sounds, smells, and other such things is making them anxious. They rely on their hearing and smell over their sight and all three senses are failing them. Even their smell-taste-touch is off.

Evelyn knows this because the two haven’t been able to fly in this damn wasteland between the smells, the strange distortion of the rifts affecting the surroundings, and the  _Avaar that keep throwing huge rocks at them_.

Evelyn had Ellana hold the gates at the fort behind them, where she had thought that her dragon’s poisonous acid could dissolve the seemingly unending masses of undead.

Mahanon blinks again at her and then lets out an annoyed huff through his nose and gently, but firmly, pulls his head away from her and goes forward towards the damp brick.

“ _Mahanon_ ,” Evelyn repeats but Mahanon pointedly ignores her in favor of breathing a fine mist of acid.

Evelyn blinks.

“Wait,  _you can do both_?”

Mahanon looks at her as his acid eats away at the stone with a soft sizzle and then he sticks his tongue out at her.

Evelyn throws her arms up, “I’m sorry for assuming, it’s just that  _most have the one_  type of breath. How was I supposed to know otherwise?”

Mahanon shrugs and breathes out a few more streams of acid fog. Which is a little gentler than acid spray, Evelyn notices, based on the smell and the rate of dissolution.

“Anything else I should know about?” Evelyn asks dryly as Mahanon adds more and more curls of acid-steam to various sections of stone wall.

Mahanon chuffs and gently hits the back of her left leg with his tail.

“Sneaky, sneaky.”

-

“Where’s Ellana?” Evelyn asks as soon as her mouth cooperates enough with her to form words.

Mahanon is gone. Evelyn wishes that this weren’t such a final fact.

She’s lost her dragon. She was lucky in that she had  _two_  to start with, but now she’s lost one and it feels like her heart has been torn out of her instead of her arm. She’d rather have given the arm up freely and kept her heart.

Mahanon is gone. This is final and absolute.

Where is Ellana?

“She’s not well, Inquisitor,” Josephine says softly, “She…with you unwell and at great risk yourself we had…I’m sorry, Evelyn. We had to cage her.”

Evelyn stares at Josephine blankly. Perhaps the mark had done something to her mind, addled her. Took away more than just her arm and what the surgeons says is a great deal of sensation above it. She still can’t feel parts of her left bicep and shoulder. Not even when Herah pokes it very, very hard. And Herah can poke  _very, very_  hard.

“Cage her,” Evelyn repeats. She wonders if losing the Anchor has affected her hearing at all. She sounds very far away. Very quiet. But she thought she said those words very loud. It felt like she did.

“We couldn’t restrain her, Inquisitor,” Cassandra says, putting a hand on Josephine’s shoulder.

The worst part is that Cassandra looks incredibly ashamed about it. Evelyn can’t be mad. Well. She is. She shouldn’t be. A more rational part of her completely understands.

Sometimes dragons are simply dragons, especially when hurt or mad or what-have-you and you have to protect people so you put them in a cage until they calm down or can be reasoned with. Like putting a child in time-out, except the child is not a child but usually a decades to centuries old being of magic and power.

Sometimes those dragons are  _Evelyn Trevelyan’s last and only dragon_  and the only thing Evelyn has to her name.

“She was grief-mad,” Cassandra says, quieter, “I don’t think she was with us. She tore the Iron Bull’s throat when he was helping us treat her injuries. We were concerned if we sedated her she wouldn’t wake again. But…she broke our hold and she got at his throat. Right next to his breath core.”

 _That_  gives Evelyn pause.

“Is he…?”

“Thick scales and decades of experience,” Cassandra says quickly, “He will recover without any lingering damage. His breathing core remains intact and unharmed. But we…we had to cage her.”

“How long?”

Josephine and Cassandra exchange hesitant glances.

“ _How. Long_.”

“Since…then,” Josephine says slowly, quickly grasping Evelyn’s hand. “She’s better now and we’ve been able to transfer her to a less extreme cage. But she hasn’t fully come back to herself yet. We haven’t been able to calm her down enough for release into Skyhold.”

“Come to  _herself_?” Evelyn repeats, staring at Josephine blankly, “Josephine, Ellana will  _never_  come back to herself.  _I_  will never come back to myself.”

Evelyn feels her throat closing and her voice cracks like a stone that’s taken one too many hits, “We lost Mahanon. What self could we go back to?”


	296. Chapter 296

“Call the retreat,” Evelyn says. She shouldn’t even have to be saying this.  _Why should she have to say this_? “Bull. Those are your -  _our_  - people. They are in danger. Call the retreat.”

Gatt, on Bull’s other side says just as heated and panicked as Evelyn is but for all the wrong reasons, “If you call that retreat the dreadnought will get overrun. They need to hold their position.”

“Not at the cost of their  _lives,”_ Evelyn protests. She can see the flash of Lavellan’s magic from here, she can feel it. She can feel Lavellan from here and she can see the white of Krem’s ridiculous war hammer and the flashes of Grim’s light hair against the green and gray of the surroundings. “We’ll be fine with or without the Qun. This won’t break us. Call the retreat.”

“Don’t do this. They’re mercenaries. They know what they signed up for, this is part of their job. This is part of  _your_ job, Hissrad.”

“His name isn’t  _Hissrad_ ,” Evelyn snaps and the Iron Bull is just staring across at the Chargers,  _his Chargers_ , looking lost. Like he didn’t think he’d ever have to choose.

Evelyn remembers the conversation so many months ago in Haven.

He’d grown used to the Qun being far away from him and everything he loves. Here, away from the Qun, he was safe to care.

Her heart aches for him. It does.

But it also burns, furious.

The idea that the Iron Bull, elite spy and soldier of the Qun, tactician and saboteur, never considered a situation in which he’d have to choose between his nation and the people he loves  _is absolutely absurd_. It’s the heights of absurdity.

He might have one eye but the Iron Bull has never been blind.

Evelyn reaches out and grabs Bull by the front of the leather straps that keep his shoulder pauldrons on and shakes him. He lets her.

“Are you honestly going to tell me that you will let them die for you? For  _the Qun_? They trust you. They  _love you_. But that has nothing to do with the Qun. It has nothing to do with the Inquisition. Are you going to watch them die knowing  _you could have saved them_?”

“If I call that retreat, we lose the Qun.”

“ _You_  lose the Qun, but they’ve lost you for years and you damn well know it.”

“Don’t listen to her, Hissrad. This is everything we’ve been working for. Now isn’t the time to get emotional over one small sacrifice,” Gatt pleads and Evelyn glares at him, furious.

This isn’t one small sacrifice.

What would Gatt know?

“Look at them,” Evelyn snarls, pointing her hand out, “Look at them. Your people.  _Your responsibility_. Look at them.  _Lavellan_. She trusts you. She may be a Charger but she’s also something more than that and we all know it. Are you going to have her die for the Qun, too?”

Something angry and hot and snarling crosses the Iron Bull’s face and it’s better than the fearful indecision and resignation that was on there.

Ellana Lavellan may be a Charger in name but they all know she’s something beyond that, too. She goes with them and she is one of them, but she also has her own goals, her own missions. Ellana Lavellan comes and goes as she pleases and it is only because she pleases that she is with the Chargers, with the Inquisition.

Not even Cassandra thinks otherwise, and Cassandra thinks that everyone in the world has that one true cause that belongs to them and only them.

“Are you going to destroy her goals for one that isn’t yours?” Evelyn asks. “Call the retreat. I don’t want this and you want don’t this. Sound the retreat or I’ll open a damn Breach right here and now to take care of this problem.”

-

“Wolf, thank the Maker, you’re alright?” Skinner says. She’s wearing the hood of an Inquisition scout, and she’s also carrying a couple of scrolls. Ellana holds her hand out and Skinner hands them to her. They’re all blank, or otherwise scratch paper. That’s a brave bluff.

“Unharmed, but also unable to leave,” Ellana replies. “Did you get my note?”

“Yes, along with a note from… _the higher ups_ ,” Skinner says, voice curling with distaste. “Krem is here to offer the Chargers as hands and swords against…that.”

“They call it the Breach. It’s a tear in the Veil,” Ellana says, “The Chargers are to work with the Inquisition?”

“Only if they accept,” Skinner confirms, “But what of you? Are you well?”

Ellana decides not to mention how she was held at sword point for a great portion of her time near and around Haven, “Unharmed, I assure you. But they do not want me to leave. They want me where they can see me, and I assume, confirm that I am not causing trouble. Have you seen my stag?”

“Kept in a pen by the rather empty stables. Unharmed, but agitated. I think he looks for you,” Skinner replies. “I’m here to see if you need a jail break.”

“It would look worse if I go with you,” Ellana says, “I will try and convince Trevelyan that she should put a good word in for the Chargers. As the person facing the rifts herself she has more weight and pull than I do. Also, she’s a human and Andrastian. I think that helps.”

“Ugh. Shems.” Skinner squeezes her arm and kisses her cheek, “We’ll see you soon. Is there anything you can tell me?”

“Have you a pen or pencil?”

Skinner produces one and Ellana quickly presses one of the pieces of paper against a wall, drawing out the bones of some spell circles.

“To Dalish,” Ellana says, “They should help sense the rifts. It’s very basic and crude, but it’s the most I’ve been able to come up with. She’ll be able to fine tune them on her own. I will attempt to go with Trevelyan when she goes to meet the Chargers, but I do not know if this invitation will be made known to me or when she will go - if she will go - so I cannot ascertain my presence there. If all else fails, I will send reports back to you when I find it safe.”

“If all else fails I’m coming back for you,” Skinner replies, folding the paper up small and tucking it into her leather vest, “Whether or not the Chief approves or not.”

“No. I have to stay,” Ellana protests, “My god and my conscience demand that I see this through. There is…more to this but this is neither the time nor place for me to say. Send the rest my love.”

“Should I kiss the Chief for you too?”

“Only if you kiss Krem, Grim, Rocky, Stitches, and Dalish for me while you’re at it. I can’t be playing favorites, can I?”


	297. Chapter 297

"Alright," Bull leans back in his chair, resting his arm over the back of Lavellan’s vacated one, “Let’s see those spell cards magic man. Hand them over.”

“What, you don’t trust me?” Dorian says, eyebrow raised.

“Not when it comes to DND,” Bull replies, “Listen, I don’t even let Lavellan get away with pulling shit on me without me seeing her cards. And I admit that I let her get away with a  _lot_  of shit when I run the campaigns, DND or otherwise. So. Spellcards. You have them?”

“I ordered them, they’re coming,” Dorian says. “Trust me when I say I have this spell.”

“Okay, yeah, receipt?” Bull challenges.

“Fasta  _vass,”_ Dorian throws a hand up, “I  _have_  Power Word Stun, and I have the correct spell slots available to use it with. Can we  _proceed_?”

“Bullshit you have Power Word Stun,” Sera chimes, “That doesn’t sound like one of yours. I bet even Lavellan doesn’t have Power Word Stun.”

“What’s going on?” Lavellan calls out through the open window, “I don’t hear dice rolls. Did we stall? Do Cullen and I need to go back inside?”

“Pavus is trying to bullshit us into thinking he has Power Word Stun,” Bull calls out.

“Spell cards?” Lavellan calls back.

“None in sight,” Sera replies.

“I’m truly hurt that none of you believe me.”

“Bullshit you can cast Power Word Stun,” Bull says, “If you could cast Power Word Stun you’d have done it way before now. Don’t make me call Rutherford back in here, with his freakishly weird memorization skills.”

“Says  _you_ ,” Sera snorts. “Of all the times for the power to go out. I’d check you if my phone weren’t dead.”

“I am so offended right now,” Dorian says, “Besides, I’m helping us get past this encounter.”

“I really need to figure out where we put our physical copies of our spell cards when we moved,” Bull sighs.

Through the open window they can hear Cullen and Lavellan tossing a baseball back and forth, like wholesome people.

“You sure you don’t want to break?” Sera asks Bull.

Cullen got hit with a bout of restless anxiety mid-session and Lavellan went outside with him to stretch her legs.

Bull’s been playing as both of their characters plus the rest of the NPC’s for the past half hour while they’re waiting for the power to come back on.

“I’m good,” Bull says, “Or I would be if I could see Pavus’ spell cards.”

Dorian flips him off.

The front door opens and the sound of something heavy hits the floor.

Bull raises an eyebrow, “Babe?”

“Nerds,” Mahanon says, nodding at them as he walks past to the refrigerator, “Where did you electricity go?”

“Mahanon!”

“Lavellan!”

“You’re alive!”

Mahanon turns around, giving Sera a confused look, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’ve been missing for the past six months?” Sera replies.

“I was  _working_ ,” Mahanon rolls his eyes, pulling out two bottles of water, cracking one open and immediately drinking a third of it. “Are you still on the same campaign as you were six months ago?”

“Yup, they’ve gotten strong but not so strong that I’d believe this one here has  _Power Word Stun_. That’s a fucking eight level, at least,” Bull says, eye narrowed at Dorian.

Mahanon walks over and kisses Bull on the cheek, “Good luck with that.”

He sticks his head out the window, “Rutherford, sister, I’m home.”

“Mahanon! You’re alive!”

“Why does everyone keep thinking I’m  _dead_?”

“Probably because I told them you died on a mountain,” Ellana replies, “Didn’t you just leave…like a month ago? Aren’t you back too soon? Did you get fired?”

“Stop telling people I’m  _dead_. And yes, I left a month ago, if you add in five more months. The job is over, I got paid. I’m home.”

“How did you get here?” Sera asks, “You can’t drive.”

Mahanon flashes a grin at her, “Cole has a learner’s permit.”

Everyone is suddenly running towards the door. Dorian skids into Sera and both of them yelp as they fall over when Bull collides into them from behind.

Cole is walking up the porch steps, carefully cradling car keys in his hands and he looks up at them with a nervous smile, “I did it.”

-

Mahanon is watching Bull like a hawk and it makes the skin on the back of his entire body prickle and want to peel off and run away from him.

“What are you doing?” Mahanon asks.

“I’m updating our maps,” Bull replies.

“For DND?”

“For DND.”

“You’ve been at it for two hours. And you still aren’t done?”

“Nope.”

“ _For DND._ ”

“Yup.”

“You’ve been designing one map for your DND campaign for two hours and you still aren’t done?”

“You’ve got the gist of it, yeah.”

Mahanon lets out a loud sigh and Bull hears Mahanon’s book thump on the floor, “I don’t know how I’ve become surrounded with so many nerds.”

Bull would point out that Mahanon is also a nerd. Whenever he’s home he absolutely crushes it on the consoles and he’s got an avid following whenever he streams.

Also he has two fanfiction aliases that are pulling some amazing hits, based on Ellana’s complaints whenever she tries to find fanfic that aren’t her brother’s.

(“Whatever filter I use he’s right at the top. My only options are to read stuff that is  _mediocre_  or to find new fandoms. And guess what?”

“He follows you into your new fandom?”

“ _I know!_  It’s awful! I hate it! How am I supposed to enjoy anything? It’s like reading something I wrote, I don’t get any kicks out of this. My eyes  _skim_  right off the damn page. Ugh.”)

A few seconds later Bull hears the sound of the console turning on.

“Some things never change,” Mahanon sighs. Bull hears the familiar start up sequence for Mahanon’s favorite warm-up game going, “Is it the water flow and distribution that’s getting you again?”

“Fuck off, Lavellan, you damn well know it is,” Bull answers, “I need a body of water to the north, but water doesn’t flow fucking backwards.”

“Should’ve moved the body of the water south then,” Mahanon shrugs, “Do you want me to make the map for you?”

“I’m a grown ass man, I can make my own campaign maps.”

“Right,” Mahanon sounds playfully skeptical. “Do you want me to  _correct_  your campaign maps for you?”

“I’m a grown ass man who can admit to being sub-par without embarrassment in comparison to someone with expertise in a field, yeah, check my maps for topographical errors.”


	298. Chapter 298

Ellana sits up, pushing her hair out of her face and over her shoulder as she squints out the window. The Iron Bull lets out a low, tired sound and she feels his hand curl into the end of her hair, fingers winding through the ends.

“Long,” Bull mumbles, “Forget how much of it there is when it’s all done to make you look like a wild thing.”

Ellana leans back a little to create a little more slack between his hand and her hair, “I should get Krem to cut it.”

“Not Skinner?”

“You know Krem’s better with scissors than Skinner is,” Ellana replies, yawning as she rolls her shoulders. There’s a dull twinge in her left one, she’ll ask Stitches for more ointment to rub into the bruises. The weather lower down in the mountains isn’t set to clear up for another few days, she has time to heal before Evelyn drags them all off to more parts unknown to  _make_  them known.

“Your hair smells good when it’s clean,” Bull says and she leans back as he pulls her hair closer to him.

“Most things do,” Ellana replies, obligingly falling backwards, halfway on him as she turns towards him. She braces herself on her hands as he coaxes her into a kiss.

Ellana opens her mouth.

The Iron Bull retreats, nudging her jaw with his chin as he kisses her there, “You sure?”

“Yes,” Ellana says and kisses him again. And again. And again. Soft things, long things.

There is a dragon’s tooth that rests on his chest and Ellana did not know how good it would feel to see it there, a physical thing, instead of to just keep it inside, an invisible weight.

Ellana did not know how good it would feel to become something, and in the Wolf’s cryptic words, in the process of becoming something, become  _everything_.

And they say that Mythal is the patron of love.

If Ellana had known that vowing herself to the Wolf would set her off on a twenty-something year long path to love she would have laughed her damn head off. But here she is, almost thirty years into her journey waking up in bed next to a man that she knows she loves beyond explanation. A man she knows loves her back.

She slumps over him, pressing her face into the junction of his neck and shoulder and breathes deep, the air warmed by his skin as he closes his arms around her and pulls the blankets back up over them. His hand is warm on her shoulder as he gently prods at the bruises there.

His tooth presses into her skin, cool and hard, but hers is also trapped between them. Quickly warming.

“Maybe  _don’t_  fall off a cliff and onto rocks next time,” Bull suggests mildly.

Ellana takes some skin between her teeth and bites, because obviously he’s right, but also it’s not like she  _chooses_  where she falls in those situations.

Bull laughs, shaking her with the sound and motion of it.

“Where’s she dragging you next?” Bull asks when he’s done laughing. Ellana releases the skin that she had been loosely holding and moves her head enough so she can answer -

“Storm Coast.”

She can practically feel all the blood in the Iron Bull’s body  _consider_  traveling south.

“Oh, yeah?” The Iron Bull says and Ellana rolls her eyes.

“You aren’t being subtle,” Ellana says, pushing up and flopping over onto his other side. “Round two against Vinsomer.”

“You want some back up for that, since the first time it didn’t go so well?”

“I’ll put a good word in for you to come with us,” Ellana says dryly. The Iron Bull grins down at her, wide and unabashed. “Try not to get overly excited at the sight of all the blood and lightning.”

-

Evelyn is in the middle of carefully sussing out the Iron Bull - though she’s pretty sure that he  _knows_  she’s trying to catch him up in a lie and is therefore  _not lying_ , but also Evelyn can’t believe a Qunari spy just goes around announcing he’s a Qunari  _spy_  to organizations called  _The Inquisition_  - when the Iron Bull is hit in the side of the head with a thick bundle of cloth.

The Iron Bull laughs, not even moving despite the heavy sound of the impact, and catches the cloth as it falls down.

Evelyn turns and sees Lavellan scowling from the Iron Bull’s tent, wrapped in thick wolf pelts and glaring at the Iron Bull.

“Druffalo,” Lavellan says, expression schooling into a more polite one as she nods to Evelyn before retreating back into the tent.

Evelyn blinks.

She had heard… _rumors_  of the Iron Bull when she came back to Haven and found that his Chargers had arrived before her party after all. Most of them involve Chantry Sisters and…um. Some other things she’d heard from Vivienne and gotten from one of Maxwell’s letters. Evelyn isn’t sure how Maxwell’s letters keep getting to her so late, when he seems to receive hers so quickly. He’s the one in the middle of traveling from Ostwick down to Haven and she’s the one with a mostly permanent location, shouldn’t his letters be finding her faster?

“Was I…interrupting?” Evelyn asks. In the Circle one grows used to interrupting trysts. There’s only so much space and so many people about. Evelyn, herself, may have been caught in what should have been a booked study room once or twice.

But she didn’t think that  _Lavellan_  would. Erm. Fall so quickly. That’s probably not an assumption Evelyn should be making. She doesn’t know Lavellan that well and she’s only had a handful of interactions with the Iron Bull.

“Nah,” The Iron Bull says, shaking the cloth out, “Is she still watching?”

“Not that I can tell.”

The Iron Bull lazily throws the cloth over his shoulder and leaves it there.

“She gets pissed if I don’t bundle up because usually she’s the one who gets stuck with me. We share a tent and all,” Bull explains. “In theory, because I’m technically her boss, I could kick her out and into another tent, but then she’d probably do something stupid like stay up all night to keep watch in below freezing weather. Old dog, you know, doesn’t learn new tricks.”

“You…know Lavellan? You’re her  _boss_? Technically?”

“She’s a Charger,” Bull says simply, “I signed her, so yup. I’m her boss. I guess you’re her boss, too, since you’re  _my_  boss.”

“The Inquisition is your boss.”

“And the Inquisition answers to you.”

“It doesn’t,” Evelyn says, “The advisors ask my opinion on things is all.”

“Right, you tell yourself that, Trevelyan,” The Iron Bull shrugs, eyebrow raised at her as he crosses his arms, “But I’m pretty sure that if you asked anyone else here they’d say you’re the boss.”

The Iron Bull grunts as another bundle of fabric, this time heavy enough that the man staggers back a little, smacks him.

Lavellan comes out of the tent pulling the many pelts around her as she trudges walks towards them, “Wear it, before one of your nipples pokes someone’s eye out. I didn’t trade away three stags and a wolverine for you to let it moulder away in your trunk.”

The Iron Bull obligingly throws the leather and fur over his shoulders, letting it settle and drape, “Yeah, yeah. You just want me to wear it so you can steal it back later and have it all warmed up for you. I’m on to you, Wolf.”


	299. Chapter 299

“He's a darling,” Ellana says, examining the basket of kittens that Evelyn has proudly placed on the wooden table, “They’re all little darlings.”

Dorian leans past her and immediately picks up a soft gray and black kitten, “Absolutely adorable. I take it they came with us to Skyhold and weren’t simply found here, tucked up all neatly.”

“One of the cats from Haven must have been pregnant,” Evelyn says, “Lucky for us, Skyhold needs plenty of mousers.”

“And lap warmers,” Ellana muses as she holds her finger out for a small black kitten to bat at with clumsy paws.

“I’ll be borrowing one when they’re older for the what I think is meant to be a library. I found a  _rat_ ,” Dorian says, “And I’m not sure how you take care of those things here in the South, but I’m fairly certain zapping one with a minor cantrip would cause some alarm.”

“You would be correct. Please do not use magic to get rid of pests,” Evelyn says, “By which I mean, pests smaller than a cat.”

“Possums are about the same size of a cat,” Ellana says.

“If there’s a possum in Skyhold I think we have other problems considering the elevation,” Evelyn replies.

“This is all very novel,” Dorian says, gently putting the kitten back, “You don’t really get pets in Tevinter. Or at least, not among nobles.”

“Really?”

“Well. Either your pet is powerful and intimidating enough to fend for itself when there is the inevitable gauche and pedestrian attack against it from another noble, or  _you’re_  powerful and intimidating enough that no one would try it,” Dorian says. “As you can guess, there are a lot of dracoliscs, wyverns, poisonous snakes, and such as pets. Not much in the way of fluffy cats and well groomed dogs. Unless they’re mousers - which aren’t pets, just common household requisites - or guard dogs - again, not pets, household tools.”

“That sounds terrible,” Evelyn says.

Ellana nods in agreement as she tucks the small black kitten back into his basket after he almost falls out in his attempt to chase her hand.

“I think he likes you,” Evelyn says, “Take him.”

“You can’t travel with pets,” Ellana says. Dogs and birds are one thing, like Dorian said, they’re tools of their own. Cats? They’re sweet and clever things but the aren’t trainable as battle companions. Not at this size, anyway. “Besides, what would he mouse for me? The Chargers don’t have a permanent base when we’re off a job. Thank you for the offer, though.”

-

“Is that a deer?” the Iron Bull’s eyebrows raise as Ellana trudges up towards their caravans. “Why do you have a fawn?”

“My brother’s a tit,” Ellana replies, hefting the huge packs up higher over her back as she searches for Dalish or Krem. They always let her dump her things with theirs. And half of this is Dalish’s request anyway.

The Iron Bull falls into step with her, hand curling around the straps of her bags and easily holding them up, “Give it here.”

Ellana untangles herself from the straps and ropes and slings that were basically holding everything together and sighs in relief as the Iron Bull lifts it and slings the entire thing over his shoulders, grunting softly as the weight transfers to him.

“Fuck, you walked all the way with this thing? How’s your back, Wolf?”

“Terrible, thank you for asking,” Ellana replies, “What’s wrong with your leg?”

“You tell me,” the Iron Bull replies eyebrow raised at her as he cocks his head, “Why do you think somethings wrong with my leg?”

“Because you never walk this far back in the line unless somethings bothering you about it.”

It can’t be too bad, otherwise he’d be on one of the supply carts or the caravan they use for the wounded and sick.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” the Iron Bull says, laughter threading through his voice, “Ever consider that?”

Ellana ignores him and stretches her arms over her head, twisting her torso and feeling a good stretch as she carefully sends a light wash of cool mana up and down her back to ease her muscles.

“Alright, fine, got my leg stomped on at an angle about two weeks ago,” the Iron Bull confesses, “Tell me about the deer.”

Ellana glances back towards the fawn. His ears flick warily as he watches the Iron Bull. He moves to Ellana’s other side, butting his head against her arm and catching a corner of her cloak with his teeth.

“A gift from my brother,” Ellana says, “Supposedly so that he’ll never have to get me another birthday present again. Because he’s lazy. He’ll grow and I’m to use him as a mount. I don’t know how my brother expects me to train him to be battle ready or how to break him to a Dalish style saddle but the thought is appreciated.”

“We can train him for the battle part,” the Iron Bull says, “We’ve broken in and trained a few horses of our own. Grim’s gelding was a foal from one of the throat slitter’s mares and one of our sapper’s stallions.”

Ellana’s eyebrows raise in surprise. Grim’s gelding is an impressive warhorse. Very steady. He has a good gait and takes direction easily. And compared to most horses he’s very good about dealing with magic being cast close to him.

“The Dalish saddle and breaking in? Might be trickier,” the Iron Bull says. “You won’t go bare back?”

“Not if I’m going to be carrying supplies,” Ellana answers. Ellana can ride fine without a saddle and tack, but it does get uncomfortable after a time and you can’t carry much weight. “Where are we going?”

“It’s summer,” the Iron Bull says, “Orlesians love to start shit during the summer. It’s almost part of their festivities. We’re going to the battlefronts. You ever been?”

“Not during the summer,” Ellana replies with a sense of dread, “It’s going to be hot.”

The Iron Bull laughs and claps her on the back, “Wolf, that is a severe understatement and I look forward to seeing how you manage with all that fur.”


	300. Chapter 300

“Hey, runt.” The Iron Bull beams.

Evelyn watches in horror as the Lavellan’s stag flares his nostrils, lowers his head, paws at the ground, and runs at the Iron But in a full on charge.

The Iron Bull just opens his arms as the massive black beast charges, horns lowered, baying like he’s about to spear straight through some demons. Evelyn knows that sounds because that’s exactly what she’s watched that stag do countless times. With or without Lavellan on his back to tell him to do so. The stag is just as strong willed and baffling as his owner.

“Have you considered running?” Sera says as she quickly jogs back from the Iron Bull. “Running sounds good.”

Evelyn quickly casts up a barrier that  _the Iron Bull steps in front of._

 _“Andraste’s mercy_ ,” Evelyn whimpers and the stag  _leaps_.

The Iron Bull laughs as the stag turns and slows at the last second, broadsiding the Iron Bull in the stomach with his side and sending him staggering back a few feet and through the barrier again.

The stag jumps in place, ears pricked forward, head lowered and looking strangely like a very gangly dog as he bays again.

“You missed me,” the Iron Bull says, holding out his hand. The stag nips at the Iron Bull’s fingers and raises his head up to butt against the Iron Bull’s neck and cheek letting out a loud  _whumpf_  of air in the Iron Bull’s face as he does so. “Missed you too, runt.”

Evelyn didn’t think deer could look  _happy_.

That is probably a little callous of her.

The Iron Bull pets the stag’s head and neck, scratching him around the antlers and ears.

“So,” Sera says, knees giving out as she flops down onto the snow, “You get used to that kind of charge or are you just…I don’t know. Dead on the inside?”

“I taught him that charge,” the Iron Bull replies, “I’ve known him since he was an actual runt. Scared of everything he couldn’t fit in his mouth.”

The Iron Bull holds his hand up to about just under his thigh, “Awkward guy. All leg. Kind of like his person. Not that you can tell when she’s all bundled up looking like a walking fur trader’s display.”

Sera snorts out a laugh, shaking her head, “That’s one way to put it, yeah.”

“That’s…impressive,” Evelyn says, “You didn’t even flinch.”

“Nah, this kid’s too soft to do any real damage to me. I’m his favorite pillow when he’s being lazy,” the Iron Bull replies.

-

“Tell me,” Ellana says, softly, a confrontation the Iron Bull knows is long overdue. The fact that she held back this long is frankly surprising. Ellana Lavellan isn’t one to normally pull her punches and be gentle. Not with things like this.

He’s grateful that she gave him the time, though.

He considers dodging the subject or playing dumb. He considers giving her something else to chew on, something else to pick over.

But he doesn’t. Not with her. He can’t do that with her.

There are so few people in the world that can cut straight through to him, the core of him. And there are even fewer people who he  _wants_  to be able to do that.

“I hesitated,” he says, closing his eyes against the memory.

He could see her. It was so clear. This terrible fucking choice that he had always known he would have to make. It would always be a choice. The Qun, the Chargers, the Qun, Lavellan, the Qun, the Iron Bull. The choice was always there and he always knew it would have to be made someday.

Someday the Qun would have called him back. They never would have let him fade away here in the South.

The Iron Bull just didn’t expect the time to come so soon.

(He did have plans, though. For when the Qun would call him back. They weren’t the best plans. They were plans made for hypothetical ideals he knew were  _his_  ideals and not the Qun’s. He imagined that he would be old and useless in a fight, recalled only so that he wouldn’t be a liability in the south. He would die on the way back. He would die before the sight of the shores of southern Thedas even disappeared over the horizon. In truth he would never leave.

One of many plans.)

He saw her, and he saw the dreadnaught. He saw the Venatori ships approaching and he saw the Venatori on shore.

In one ear, Gatt. In the other, Evelyn Trevelyan.

And in front of him, Krem throwing around that dumbass maul of his like he isn’t going to one day throw out his damn back like that. In front of him, Dalish’s staff bright red at one end and creating streaks of light as she spun it around like she was dancing. In front of him, the quick flashes of Grim disappearing in and out of shadows and weaving through lines of sight. In front of him, Rocky and Stitches providing support from the sidelines. In front of him, his Wolf casting spells that he could almost feel along his skin from memory alone.

He could see her. It was strangely clear to him.

He saw the gleam of her staff, the white-green magic that forms around its blade and its focus - the same color as Trevelyan’s Anchor and the Breach and the Rifts, though no one else has really picked that out yet and lay it out there, though he knows people must have noticed - and he saw the bright flare of her spell circles and her sigils and her runes as she cast out arrows and bolts and hurled spears of ice to keep them from being swarmed.

The Iron Bull saw it all and he hesitated.

“We walk out into the world knowing we may die any moment,” Ellana says, tapping her staff against her shoulder as she looks out over the mountains, leaning against one of Skyhold’s parapets. “It’s in our contract.”

“I know,” The Iron Bull says.

But the Qun was not their employer. The Qun was not responsible for them. The Qun is not the person that they trusted with their lives.

Ellana’s dark eyes slide to him, away from the frozen expanse, “Tell me.”

“If Trevelyan didn’t tell me to, give me the excuse, I would have watched you die,” He says. It feels like it’s gutting something out of him to say it. He wanted to. He  _wanted to_. He wanted to raise the horn to his mouth and expel all the air in his body for them. But he couldn’t.

The Qun is stone, and he is the stone the Qun carves, he is what the Qun made of him.

He couldn’t.

Evelyn saved the Chargers. She saved Ellana. Because  _he could not_.

“You think you are a coward,” Ellana says, dark hair faintly stirred by the wind. He’s not sure if it’s the wind or the words being said out loud that make his skin prickle. Both, maybe. “You are a coward, the Iron Bull, but not for that reason.”

He bites down on his tongue.

“I love you,” Ellana says and he blinks, startled by this abrupt change in direction. “I love you, and I have loved you for a long time. At this moment, I continue to love you. Do you love me back?”

He is a stone. He opens his mouth to reply but the words blank out in his mind.  _He can’t_.

Ellana smiles, a Wolf’s smile. A dragon’s smile.

“You are not a coward for not blowing the retreat,” Ellana says, “Not a single one of us would have ever thought poorly of you for leaving us there. It is our job. The cowardice comes from somewhere deeper inside of you. You already know what it is. You’ve known for so long. You’ve known what it is for longer than I’ve known you, longer than any Charger has known you, longer than you’ve been in the South, longer than that. I love you, and I continue to love you. But I cannot help you. I can only be here with you and for you. Be brave, the Iron Bull. The world is ending. It’s time to leap.”


	301. Chapter 301

Bull hears the door open - in this house a damn courtesy given the silent creepers who somehow manage to never make noise - and lifts his head a little to say, “I told you, I don’t know where Ellana put your stuff. If she has something of yours ask her about it. I literally cannot tell your beauty products apart. I have  _no hair_ , I can’t help you on this one.”

He somehow senses the person who just entered the room pause, but continue and then a dip on the bed as a body shimmies up.

Not Mahanon, then. Mahanon doesn’t shimmy. If he were going to get on this bed with Bull for reasons unknown to Bull since Mahanon doesn’t get in this bed unless Ellana is also in it, he wouldn’t  _shimmy_.

It could be Cole.

Bull feels a thin body climb over his back and lie down over him.

The body has tits.

“Hey,” Bull says.

“Why did you think I was my brother?” Ellana says, pointy chin digging into his shoulder as she sprawls over him.

“He was in here ‘bout ten minutes ago,” Bull answers, feeling her legs kicking against his where they dangle off of the other end of the bed. “He was looking for his conditioner. Did you take his stuff when he was gone?”

“Well,  _yeah_ , he wasn’t going to be using that when he was hiking around the middle of nowhere. There’s no running water in the middle of the mountains, Bull.  _Duh_. And he spent like, fifty whole dollars on that. In actual real life currency. Can you believe that?”

“You spent fifty dollars on a new figure for your last character,” Bull points out.

“That’s different. A bottle of conditioner will last you like, six months. A character figurine for a campaign? That’s for life, Bull. For life. Speaking of  _characters_.” Ellana rolls off of him and bounces on the bed, flopping down across it like him, peering down over the edge of the bed to try and get a look at his face as they lie there, flopped across their bed like kids, “You haven’t shown me your character sheet.”

“And I’m not going to, it’s a surprise,” Bull says, yawning. “You’ll meet them when we start Cullen’s new campaign.”

Ellana’s pout is a mighty, mighty force.

“But I want to know  _now_. So I can prepare for whatever it is you’re going to throw at me. I always tell you about  _my_  characters.”

“Yup, you do,” Bull says, “Doesn’t mean I have to tell you back.”

“Whenever you and Cullen hide character information from me it always comes about to bite me in the butt,” Ellana says, definitely sulking. “Why do you always bite me in the butt?”

Bull snaps his teeth at her half-heartedly.

“Why are you so tired?”

“Because I work. You know, that thing people do and get paid for?”

“Sit and look pretty like me?”

Bull moves enough to kick her leg. Ellana snickers.

“We can’t all be incredibly impressive researchers at the forefront of our fields.”

Ellana leans over and kisses his arm, “You keep lying down. I’m going to go find Mahanon and we’ll make you a nice dinner and you’ll really like it and then you’re going to tell me all about your new character.”

-

“Oh no, new dice, how could you,” Ellana looks visibly crestfallen at the pair of sea-green dice she’d just rolled.

“Ouch,” Bull says, leaning over and grimacing.

“Numbers?” Cullen asks.

“That’s…a two,” Ellana says slowly.

“And?”

Sera leans forward, hands crossed and shit-eating smile threatening to come over her face. Dorian’s eyebrows are slowly raising up his face. Malika has paused with her soda can half-way up to her mouth, eyes fixed on Ellana as the woman grimaces, sliding down in her seat and visibly preparing herself for what’s going to happen next.

“It’s a critical fail,” The Iron Bull says, putting a sympathetic hand on Ellana’s shoulder.

Sera bursts out into laughter and Dorian shakes his head, smiling fondly as he leans back in his seat, arms crossing as he clicks his tongue at her.

“I didn’t think it was possible. I mean, statistically of course it is, but…I just…You know?” Malika says, putting her soda down.

“I knew you’d roll a crit fail one day,” Sera says, laughing as she points at Lavellan.

“Don’t  _laugh_ , I’m your cleric,” Lavellan complains, “And I’m about to  _die_.”

“I’d stabilize you,” Bull says. “I’ve got potions.”

“Thanks babe.”

“Lay it on her, Rutherford,” Dorian says, “Just.  _Lay it on thick_.”

“Why are you all mean to me? Cullen, please be nice. Please? Remember that one time I let you pet my dog?”

“Hell hound, it was a hell hound,” Bull insists.

“Still can’t believe she rolled a nat twenty on that check,” Sera shakes her head.

Cullen’s mouth twitches upward before he schools his features, “As the orc barbarian runs towards you, axe raised to attack you attempt to dodge. But he moves too fast and you reacted too slow. Confused and high on adrenaline you slip on a loose cobblestone. You fall onto your back, hard. Your head cracks against the ground and the frenzied assailant swings down with his second attack. You bring your arms up to block and he gets his axe  _right_  into your forearm. Not cutting through by some miracle, but it gets in deep and you take one d-six of bludgeoning damage from the fall and - “

“And that’s it,” Ellana groans, “I’m out. I’m gone. Your cleric is dead, this campaign is over. Everyone start rolling for new stats now. I’m never playing healer again. It’s hard enough in video games. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not meant for healing.”

Bull rubs her back as she puts her head down on the table and groans.

“Maybe Cullen will let you re-roll as an NPC while the rest of us enjoy our campaign together.”

“No,” Ellana cries, “Don’t leave me behind. I don’t want to be a reoccurring NPC.”


	302. Chapter 302

Ellana makes a quick and somewhat inelegant exit from the festivities as soon as she can. It takes her several frustrating tries to figure out how to get  _out_  of the gilded and mirrored halls. Does not a single place here work  _properly_? Hallways into more hallways, doors into more rooms, dozens upon dozens of couches and tables that serve no real purpose or function other than to look pretty, and  _entire walls_  of windows that she can’t get open without smashing. Windows that don’t  _open_.

It’s damned  _ridiculous_  and Ellana’s skin itches with a fierce and petty urge to smash every single one just for the hell of it.

The Iron Bull probably knows the entire floorpan for this stupid maze but she’s not going to ask him. He keeps looking at her like he’s laughing, and he probably is. But Ellana can figure this out without that smug man.

For fuck's sake, she’s crossed Thedas how many dozens of times without any map other than the one in her head? She can navigate one stupid Orlesian palace.

Eventually Ellana finds herself in a garden with several masked attendees milling about. Dorian is off to the side with a flute of champagne looking extremely put together and unfairly calm.

Ellana makes a line towards him and he looks surprised to see her.

“Out for some air? You look…harried, news?” Dorian asks as Ellana comes to stand next to him. She envies the way that he seems so comfortable in the red jacket and blue sash all of the Inquisiton’s non-combatant members have to wear.

The rest of the Chargers  _laughed_  at her. She’d never seen Grim’s face so red before, he looked like a strawberry with blonde hair.

She looks bloody ridiculous.

“None, I left the grand ballroom as soon as introductions were over. I’ve been trying to find somewhere that isn’t…”

Ellana fumbles for the words to say  _crowded_  or  _ostentatious_  or  _here_  and finds herself coming up empty.

Dorian looks entirely understanding though so she lets the sentence drop.

“I thought you’d be with the Iron Bull for the evening, being judging and incredibly hard to approach together,” Dorian muses.

“Oh no,” Ellana makes a face, “Why would I do that to myself? Do you know how  _miserable_  he is to be around in situations like this? Not on your life would I willingly subject myself to that.”

Dorian’s eyebrows are raising and he looks disbelieving.

“He hates politics for one thing, but he’s very good at it, so he’d spend the entire evening making  _comments_  and complaining but also at the same time actively trying to pick apart anyone who comes within range,” Ellana says. “It’s  _annoying_. He’ll just be flirting with people to get them riled up or maybe acting extra loud and thick-skulled to make people annoyed or he’ll be doing it to make people  _think_  he’s an idiot and then he’ll trick them into doing something stupid to make  _them_  look like idiots and he’ll be miserable and cranky about the entire evening and just itching to get into trouble. This isn’t our first ballroom floor.”

“Impressive,” Dorian says eyebrows definitely raised, “But I doubt you’ve ever been on the actual guest list instead of on the security patrols, let alone been on the guest list of a ball with such high stakes and so many actors involved.”

Ellana shudders, “Exactly. He’ll be  _such_  a pain to deal with. No. I’d rather not be anywhere near him tonight, or this jacket will be red for more than one reason.”

Ellana tugs at the collar and it feels so damn itchy. Is she literally the only one who feels so uncomfortable in this thing?

“Here, let me,” Dorian says, handing her his champagne flute as his hands go to her jacket’s fastenings, “There’s a trick to it. I’ve been stuffed into more than one unfortunately tailored suit to know. Am I the first person you were able to find aside from the Iron Bull then?”

“The first one I had any interest in hanging about,” Ellana replies feeling cooler night air brush against her skin as Dorian loosens her collar for her. A thread of tension releases from her shoulders. “I was going to try and find Varric to see if he could make this evening more tolerable but, alas, he’s been mobbed by fans. I didn’t realize he was that popular.”

“I’m not sure if it’s any actual talent as a writer or if it’s just the subject matter to be honest,” Dorian says, “I, myself, have very little input on the topic because I, myself, can’t tell if I find his books pleasing because of the writing or because of the elements of truth to the story. It’s a bit of a mess.”

“Cassandra looks just as sour as the Iron Bull is on the inside, she’s just being more forthright with it,” Ellana continues, “Best not disturb that dragon.”

Dorian chuckles as he takes his champagne flute back, “And who else did you find and decide to let lie?”

“Blackwall was just standing in front of a fireplace looking sullen. And I refuse to touch that at all, that is out of my pay grade and emotional depth,” Ellana says. It was frankly a deeply uncomfortable experience and she found herself holding her breath as she flattened herself against a wall to get past him. “Josephine looks ready to rip herself out of her own skin with nerves. I took one look at Leliana and frankly she looks entirely too pleased to be here. Cullen looks…well. I can’t tell if he’s more uncomfortable than I am or if he’s resorted to reciting the Chant in his head to calm his nerves.”

That earns her a much louder snort of amusement before Dorian quickly stifles it.

“And so I’m your last resort?”

“Only the most appealing, I’m sure the others are around,” Ellana says, “But I wager that you have much more experience than all of us - excluding Madame de Fer - and that you would make this pass all the much more faster. We never did finish our discussion on the latest changes to the theories of thaumaturgy’s basic introductions.”

Dorian looks both fond and delighted, “Ellana Lavellan, are you about to bait me into a full on debate in front of polite Orlesian society? We don’t even have a chalkboard, let alone scrap paper.”

“I don’t know, Dorian Pavus, am I?” Ellana grins, “And do you  _need_  a board to prove your point?”

“Oh,” Dorian’s voice lowers as he smiles, “It is most definitely  _on_.”


	303. Chapter 303

Summer, again, and Ellana shrieks, closing her arms around the Iron Bull’s neck as he lifts her up over his shoulder. The wind is cool against her damp skin and his shoulder is hot underneath her side and stomach where she’s leaned on him. The green air is filled with laughter that doesn’t come close to drowning out the sound of the waterfall.

“Don’t!” Ellana yells, trying to grasp onto him, but her fingers slide off sweat slicked skin the Iron Bull’s shoulder shifts as he hefts her up higher in preparation.

“You said you were hot,” The Iron Bull replies and he throws her over the edge of the waterfall.

Ellana has a moment of sheer surprised shock as she is for a second weightless, and the Iron Bull’s face is clear as the summer sky. He’s smiling and he’s laughing and he’s flushed with their training exercises and the running and the teasing and the laughter and their morning of hunting giants and other such beasts and then she’s falling over the edge of the waterfall. The mist of the water is cool, and the shock of hitting the water - the sting of impact and all - jars her into the present moving time.

She breaks the surface as another body swims up to her from behind and Skinner is swimming around her, dark hair even darker with water as she playfully splashes Ellana right in the face.

“You ass!” Ellana yells up at the Iron Bull, a shape she has to squint up at through the water in her face and the sun in her eyes. The Iron Bull’s laugh is clear.

Summer again, and Ellana thinks she’s starting to understand what she came into this world for.

She left her clan to find something, to become something. Ellana, twenty or so odd years into it, doesn’t think she’s become anything in particular but she thinks she’s  _found_  something special. Finally.

Something that changes, something that grows, something that challenges and creates friction and then polishes the edges.

A hand around her ankle tugs lightly and Ellana lets herself get pulled under. She sees Grim and Stitches swimming below her and they gesture towards the far shores where Dalish had been soaking her feet and Ellana grins, following as they swim their way over to their fellow Charger.

Rocky could not be persuaded to join them in, as deeply fascinated as he was by investigating the various flora and fungi that seem to only grow in the Graves.

Ellana  _had_  been helping him with that until the Iron Bull swept her up around the waist and carried her all the way back here and threw her off a waterfall.

“Half of the fun for him is figuring it out on his own when it blows up in his face,” The Iron Bull had said. “Did I ever tell you about how he thinks he’s got blasting powder right? He doesn’t. It’s not even close. He doesn’t believe me but honestly he’s so far off that I’m surprised he didn’t die the first time he tried it.”

Dalish yowls like a cat when through a combination of one of Ellana’s spells and Stitches and Grim’s strength she’s dragged into the water. Skinner had gone back up on the shore and crept up around her, darting forward just as Ellana’s mage hands got her ankles and helped throw her into the water.

They’re distracted by a loud yelp and a splash, and Ellana turns pushing her wet hair out of her face - oh, it will be  _such_  a pain to deal with as it dries, the same with all of her clothes - and she sees Krem’s head pop out of the water as he turns around and flips the Iron Bull off.

Ellana turns to the others and they all nod at her at once and they dive underneath the water’s surface together.

Ellana doesn’t think she was ever so in tune with so many people at once before. Not even growing up with her cousins and their cousins and their cousin’s cousins.

How strange, Ellana thinks, that she had to leave her home to find it.

-

“I’m guessing you didn’t like the hors d’oeuvres,” Ellana says when she finds the Iron Bull in the aftermath of the ball. Unbelievably there are still people dancing and gossiping and milling about, celebrating the new rise of a stable and united empire.

Personally, Ellana would have wanted to get a drink and go to bed. The blood is still wet for fuck’s sake.

“The Empress has shit caterers,” the Iron Bull says, “Where’ve you been all night? Didn’t see you until the last part when you were helping Trevelyan pin down Florianne. Got to say, from what I saw it looked like an impressive fight. Who knew that she could fight like that?”

“It was a challenge. How were things in here?” Ellana asks, resting her head against his arm as they lean against the palace’s stone walls. The sounds of the musicians and low chatter fills the night air even as they watch servants and guards remove any traces of the violence that just happened. The Iron Bull crosses his arms and shrugs.

“S’alright. The usual shit,” The Iron Bull says. “I think the Inquisition has stuff handled here. Do you want to head back? Collect our boys and go?”

Ellana hasn’t seen any of the other Chargers since they split off to join the rest of the Inquisition’s forces patrolling the lands surrounding the Winter Palace.

“I ought to stay for Evelyn,” Ellana says. “I don’t think she’d appreciate us leaving without letting her know.”

The Iron Bull points upwards towards one of the several grand balconies that overlook the gardens. “Trust me, she’s going to be preoccupied.”

“Oh, is she getting a dance with the Commander after all?” Ellana straightens up, “Put me on your shoulders I can’t see from here.”

The Iron Bull nudges her side with a low laugh, “You aren’t seeing it from here. Besides I don’t know where they are. I’m just saying that maybe later she’ll get a dance. With the way Leliana and Maxwell meddle there’s going to be  _something_  before either of them get back to their rooms for the night.”


	304. Chapter 304

Ellana's hair sticks to her face and her breath is electric with mana. Her shield flexes around her, stable still despite the many arrows that she’s deflected and the bodies she’s run it into. Ellana’s mind is both hyper focused and detached from the situation at hand.

There are steps to a fight. It would be like a dance if it weren’t so - often - inelegant and halting. There are steps to a fight, but not in the way you tell a story. A story has a defined space to it. A beginning, a middle, an end. And it has a defined path to take you between these segments. A story will carry you without disruption, without dropping you, without losing you.

A fight will take you places, but it will often drop you and lose you altogether.

Ellana is in a fight and she is casting spells and she is using her staff and her fists and her feet and the blade conjured of pure mana that she calls in between passes of her staff. But Ellana is not thinking in spells. Ellana is not thinking  _I need to use arc lightning_  or  _this is where wall of ice would go_  or even  _dodge now_. Ellana is thinking, but not so clearly, not in such a clear and present process.

Ellana is seeing and she is reacting and it is inelegant and uncoordinated and mostly unplanned. But her actions move together and carry between one moment and the next.

It is something like swimming, or riding, or braiding hair. You are doing something, but you are no longer thinking of the steps to it. Your body moves and you know the steps, but in the moment you are doing them you are not thinking the names of those steps.

When Ellana sees that the Iron Bull is being flanked by two knife wielding enemy mercenaries while dealing with two shield and axe bearers she is not thinking in clear terms as she acts. Ellana is acting based on the moments that dropped her here and the momentum she feels pulling her to the next segment of this fight.

So Ellana yells out, pushing her voice out and deep and rough and electric _, “_ Bull!”

Later, after the fight, Ellana will be able to say very succinctly what happened from the parts she remembers. There are very few people that remember every single clear detail of a moment so full of adrenaline and necessity and drive.

Ellana, right now, hefts her staff up and channels magic through the wood and the metal blade of it and throws with a rough and loud snarling grunt that rises from her chest and she watches it hit against one of the flanking mercenaries. And then the staff explodes with a ripple of force magic that causes the Iron Bull to stumble for a moment but everyone else near him go flying flat because she did yell for him and he was ready.

And, right now, because she hears someone calling  _her_ , Ellana drops into a crouch in time for a body to go flying right over where she was into another body behind her with a loud grunt.

The blades of mana hum not with sound but with  _force_  in her hands as she turns and sweeps her leg out, catching a body and tripping it as she turns and rises up and stabs  _down_.

Ellana then pushes backwards, blades in her hands as she shoves magic through her heel and  _pushes_  her way through space until she’s cleared several bodies and yards, dispelling one blade to hold her hand out and catch against solid wood. The staff comes free from the body it had pierced and then stunned with a hard jerk that slows her dash and she uses it to pivot.

Ellana looks down at the body she had just freed her staff from and prepares to stab downwards, once.

Someone grabs her staff, and Ellana jerks as the force of her arms is stopped, and pulls her staff back a little. Ellana is still trying to push down. A body warm and heavy presses against her back, and the Iron Bull says - his breath is hot against the side of her face as he raises his voice to be heard over the pounding of their hearts and the fighting around them - , “Not that one.”

And then he’s pushed away from her to continue the fight. Her staff is released and Ellana almost stumbles forward with the momentum that he had been holding back.

Later, afterwards as they’re cleaning up Ellana can succinctly say what happens.

She saw the Iron Bull in danger and knew she could not reach him in time. So she raised her staff, blade out, and channeled mana through it - ice to harden and sharpen the bladed edge - and threw it with a burst of force energy to make sure it gained enough momentum to hit its mark. And at the very last moment, a time-delayed force spell that would explode in a wave to throw anything not ready for it out with concussive force.

Ellana had known that the Iron Bull would be ready.

Krem yelled at her because a flail-wielding fighter had come up behind her mid-throw. Ellana dropped down and Grim threw his opponent at her assailant. Both bodies went down but a third attacker coming from the side trying to get both Ellana and Grim was already coming in.

Ellana swept out with her leg and using her energy blades finished them.

She then used a fade step to cross to the Iron Bull and retrieve her staff from the Lieutenant of the opposing mercenary band’s right shoulder. She left a trail of frost behind her that helped slow enemies down enough that Dalish could land several energy laced arrows while Skinner followed in Ellana’s steps to lay down quick and deadly slashes with her knives.

Before she could deal the killing blow the Iron Bull stopped her, so she froze his legs instead, and they proceeded to finish subduing the enemy forces.

And that is the story of what happened, told after the fight picked her up and dropped her into moments as it pleased.


	305. Chapter 305

“You look,” Ellana starts and turns to Grim for help.

Grim’s jaw is clenched rather handsomely but he slowly averts his eyes from her in a display of complete and total betrayal.

“I look?” The Iron Bull says, knowing damn well what he looks like.

Ellana turns around for help and she turns just in time to see Rocky and Skinner rushing out the door to the Herald’s rest. She’s surrounded in traitors.

The only ones left are Krem and Stitches, but that’s because Krem’s got an injured knee and Stitches is blocked in by Krem on the bench.

Dalish got up and left as soon as the Iron Bull walked in.

Ellana grimaces and turns back to the man and fumbles for something that isn’t  _I want to put my eyes out_.

As if the Iron Bull isn’t fully aware of how…ridiculous he looks in the bright, bright,  _vibrant_  red military jacket with its hideously blue sash and…damned awful gloves.

“Aren’t you always on me to wear a jacket anyway? I thought you’d like it.”

“You know that isn’t what I mean,” Ellana says. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s the Inquisition uniform for Halamshiral,” the Iron Bull answers, wrinkling his nose as he experimentally tries to stretch his arms out in it. “I’m going to choke in this thing. Aclassi, you know stuff about clothes, can you fix this?”

“I can give it to Dalish to burn,” Krem replies, “God, Chief. That isn’t your color.”

“Which part?”

“All of it,” Ellana and Krem answer together.

“By Inquisition uniform,” Ellana says, “Do you mean - ?”

Ellana gestures around the table at all of them here.

“Oh, nah. The Chargers aren’t going inside the ball so they’ll just be wearing the Inquisition crest to make sure people know who brought them in,” Bull says.

“Thank you for this mercy lady of Dragons and Gray Sister,” Ellana releases a sigh of relief and the Iron Bull  _smiles_  at her.

“Chargers only. You and me? We’re wearing the jackets. And the sashes. And the gloves. And the trousers. And the  _boots_.” The Iron Bull says this with too much satisfaction. Ellana disapproves immensely.

“Why?” Ellana asks. “I’m not going into that ball.”

“Have you told Trevelyan that?” The Iron Bull asks. “Because she’s under the impression that you’re walking in the front door with her. You want to be my date?”

“No,” Ellana says.

“That’s cold, Wolf,” Stitches says, “Stone cold.  _Nice_.”

“I mean, yes, I’ll be your date,” Ellana backtracks, “No. I’m not going. So I’m not exactly going to be your date. I’m. That is just so terrible. Can you take it off? The gloves at the very least?”

The Iron Bull pulls them off with his teeth and an eyebrow waggle that makes her want to smack him upside the head.

“Who thought that these were a good idea?” Krem asks, catching one of the horribly tan gloves that the Iron Bull tosses at him. “Not bad make. Quality seems good. It’s just.  _Not good_.”

“I bet you it was surplus from another order,” Stitches says, “The Inquisition is piecing together left over rejects from tailors.”

Krem makes a disbelieving face. “I thought we were past the whole running a poor charity military thing.”

“You’d hope so. We have a castle.”

“An abandoned castle.”

“It’s not abandoned if we’re in it, is it?”

“Normally,” The Iron Bull says to her while Stitches and Krem are going back and forth, “I’m asked to take my clothes off in a more private setting, but for you Wolf, anything.”

“Not really anything otherwise you’d wear a scarf or maybe a shirt when I ask,” Ellana says, holding out her hand as he takes the sash off and starts working on the fine clasps of the red military jacket. “Krem’s right, this is fine fabric. I feel like Pavus or de Fer would have said something about this.”

“Saving the best for last, probably,” Bull muses, grunting as he tries to untangle himself. “Help.”

Ellana sets the sash down, standing up and moving around the table to stand behind him and pry his thick arms from the stiff fabric. “Did they even measure you?”

“He might have gotten bigger,” Krem says.

“Shut it,” Bull grumbles, “Have you considered that maybe this is why I don’t wear jackets?”

“I think you just don’t wear them to mock me,” Ellana replies, “At this point what else could it be?”

She shakes the material out and sighs, “There’s no fixing this kind of…purposeful tragedy. Did you at least tell Evelyn that it’s awful?”

“I leave it to you, Wolf. I mean, what would I know about fashion?”

-

“Hey, Wolf.”

Ellana stubbornly pushes her face deeper into her pillow and clumsily pulls the blankets up over her head.

“Cute,” The Iron Bull says and she grumbles when he nudges the bed. “Wolf, get up, I’ve got something for you.”

“Sleep,” Ellana says, trusting that he’ll understand whatever garbled mess comes out through the layers of cloth and fur and her own hair in her mouth. “G’way.”

The Iron Bull laughs quietly and she curls up in protest as he starts pulling back layers to get to her. Ellana whines when cool air gets to her skin. His warm hand closes around her shoulder and shakes her.

“No,” Ellana says and the Iron Bull lets her go.

And then something very small and furry is placed right next to her closed fist and it mews very loudly.

Ellana sits up immediately and looks down at the kitten that the Iron Bull has deposited on their bed.

Ellana points at it, “You.”

The black kitten from a few weeks ago stares up at her and mews plaintively before it starts to explore with its little tail up in the air.

Ellana points at the Iron Bull who’s grinning very smugly, “You.”

“You can’t name the cat  _you_ ,” the Iron Bull says, “That’s too confusing.”

Ellana picks the kitten up before it can get too far away and she sets him down on her lap. He immediately begins to knead at her thigh and nudge at her stomach and then try to climb up her.

“You did not get us a cat.”

“Nope, I got  _you_  a cat.”

“No,” Ellana says. “We can’t have a cat. You know this cat isn’t going to be just mine, it’s going to be yours too because animals like you because you’re you and it’s going to be  _our cat_  and we can’t have a cat.  _We cannot have a cat_. Bull we travel. We cannot be a traveling mercenary band and have a cat. We fight dragons and demons. We are at war and we cannot have a cat.”

The Iron Bull reaches out and runs a finger down the cat’s back and it meows very loudly right into Ellana’s ear as she boosts it up onto her shoulder.

“Sure we can. We have dogs.”

“You can train a dog to fight. We have war dogs. Hunting dogs.  _Bull_.”

“You like the cat,” the Iron Bull says.

“Of course I like the cat,” Ellana says, “How could I not like the cat? I can’t take care of a cat.”

“You raised a deer.”

“A deer isn’t a cat!  _I ride_  my deer. I can’t ride a cat! Ghilan’nain preserve me.”

Ellana feels the little warm ball of fluff start to paw at her hair.

“Wolf,” the Iron Bull says, “Take the cat. Do you really want me to give the cat back and have this little guy wonder why he isn’t good enough to be someone’s cat for the rest of his life?”

Ellana glares and immediately holds the kitten to her chest, “You play dirty.”

“You love it. And you love me. And you love the cat,” the Iron Bull says, cupping her cheek and kissing her forehead. “You’re welcome. Happy name day.”


	306. Chapter 306

Evelyn’s spent the better part of the morning just rubbing the scales on Ellana’s underbelly as the dragon lazily suns herself while her brother swims around the deeper parts of the waters, disappearing underneath the glassy surface and cresting only as a faint ridge of glistening white spines every few minutes.

Ellana’s tail swishes creating slow ripples and gently lapping waves as she softly croons to herself.

“My arms are getting tired,” Evelyn says but Ellana just keeps crooning, happily away without a care in the world.

Considering that Ellana and Mahanon  _roasted_  and  _melted_  some undead yesterday there might not be anything left in the plains for them to worry about.

Evelyn certainly slept better.

She’s found that when one sleeps between two very bossy and prissy dragons at night who can’t stand to be away from their cuddly human sleep-aide you get used to feeling very safe, though it doesn’t ease the nerves much when your most immediate threat is the dead rising to get you.

Something being dead should be a very final comfort to a person. You shouldn’t have to worry about the dead on top of the living.

She hears the sound of wings and looks up to see Kaaras’s dark purple-gray scales as he descends. Evelyn waves and she sees the glint of Herah’s white hair as Kaaras glides down onto the grassy slopes behind Evelyn and Ellana.

Kaaras is such a gentle flier for one so large.

“Hello, nice flight?” Evelyn asks as Herah walks towards them, Kaaras a gentle figure behind her as his neck stretches up and over them all to take a look around.

Evelyn, personally, would love to have a morning flight over the beautiful Exalted Plains, but Ellana and Mahanon were feeling lazy and they’re more water type dragons anyway.

“Saw the sights,” Herah answers.

“And?”

 _Burning_ , Kaaras says into her mind, his thoughts gently washing against the edges of her consciousness like warm tea.  _Pyres._

“It’s a war zone,” Herah says standing next to Evelyn and smiling down when Ellana moves her head around to lazily blow at Herah. “Hello lazy lizard.”

Ellana clicks and turns up to Kaaras who bends down to bump his snout against hers. The two dragons purr at each other before Ellana’s head flops back down again.

Kaaras lays down up higher on the slope, stretching his wings up before folding them up and turning his head towards the water to watch as Mahanon swims lazy laps.

“Anything I should be worried about?”

“Saw some rifts. Easy enough to take care of, now that you’ve gotten rid of most of the undead,” Herah says. “There’s a curious looking battlement down to the south east. Lots of demons, from what Kaaras was sensing. The big baby didn’t want to get close enough for a proper scouting mission.”

Kaaras huffs, tail twitching as he looks down sharply at Herah.

“Yes, yes, hatchling, yes,” Herah waves her hand, “Same thing.”

Evelyn feels a small pang of jealousy that Herah and Kaaras can speak to each other.

Dorian and Maxwell can too.

The Iron Bull’s been known to speak now and again.

Her dragons have never spoken once. Then again, neither have a lot of other dragons in the Inquisition.

Evelyn has to remind herself that telepathy isn’t something all dragons have. And even for those who have it, it’s a cultivated skill that develops over time and with lots of practice.

Evelyn usually only gets the faint ideas of laughter from her dragons, and she’s pretty sure that’ just their bond.

Dragons can talk to each other with telepathy though.

“We’ll see if these two will let me go later,” Evelyn says, smacking Ellana’s stomach. “They’ve just been playing at being big lizards all morning.”

-

The Archdaemon is not Corypheus’ bonded dragon. There is no way, no possible way those two are a bonded dragon and rider.

That is one thing Evelyn thinks, in the very back of her mind, as she struggles to breathe. Her hand hurts. Her chest hurts. Her lungs hurt. Her throat and mouth hurt. Her entire body  _hurts_.

But she’s alive.

Both of her dragons, curled around her like two halves of a shell, are alive, if unconscious. She can feel the slow beat of their hearts.

Evelyn’s entire arm flares with pain. It feels like someone’s jammed iron straight through her bones. The green light of the anchor reflects pierces through her closed eyelids and her head hurts, too.

Evelyn yells out - pain and surprise - when the pain in her arm is felt in her chest and her mind as her dragons project confusion and hurt at her. The two seize, crushing her for a moment before they quickly push away from her and each other.

Her dragons fold their arms back, the membranes of their wings collapsing and folding against their bodies as they slowly roll away from each other and onto their arms and legs, shaking like dogs.

Evelyn looks them both over the best she can with just the Anchor and the faint lightning that glows from inside of them.

They press against her mind, wordless.

“I’m alive, and so are you,” Evelyn says, and Mahanon lowers himself onto his belly. Evelyn clumsily gets onto his back they begin to look around the collapsed snow they’ve been buried in.

Ellana pushes her head against Evelyn’s chest and Evelyn feels the faint thrum of magic coursing through her scales, warming her.

“Thank you,” Evelyn says, cradling her arm to her chest, “I don’t know what I would do without the two of you.”

Ellana breathes out a warm gust of air against Evelyn’s stomach and pulls her head back, turning her head up and stretching her neck to brush her nose against the top of the crumbled snow.

Mahanon’s head skims against the bottom stone. They must be in the catacombs and tunnels underneath Haven.

Ellana and Mahanon’s frills and spines flick upwards as they start to hum lowly, trying to sense out their situation.

Evelyn holds her hand up and feels a strange pull. She holds her hand out and tries to follow the direction of the pull.

“Andraste guide my flame,” Evelyn whispers as gestures for them to turn and go forward. “This way. Better than nothing. Let’s hope that the others fare better than we do.”


	307. Chapter 307

“Hey,” The Iron Bull's vision blurs and wavers, but Ellana Lavellan’s eyes are still deep things that hold him in place. “You crying?”

Water drips from her face, from her eyes and her hair and her pores, onto his and he can taste the salt of it on his lips. Past the blood.

“No,” the spirit says, hand cold - so very cold - on his face as she gently runs her palms over his skin. He would turn to look and see if the blood mixes with her water, but he can’t move very much. Talking is a delayed sensation.

The words come a few moments later than he expects.

“The ocean does not weep for something it cannot lose,” Lavellan says, the sound of her voice like waves. Loud when you pay attention, soft and promising if you pay attention in the right way. “All things return to the sea. The world was born from the water, it will return to the water.”

The Iron Bull feels the power of his adrenaline start to leave him. His wounds are no longer fuel for him to burn on. They’re just wounds.

“We good?” He asks. The last he saw before his legs gave out was seeing the Inquisitor running after the magister and the Gray Warden Commander. And there was a dragon.

Somewhere between then and now his legs gave out and Lavellan put his head on her lap.

Sound is strange. He can’t tell if there’s sound happening at all. It’s like he’s been submerged.

“Yes,” Lavellan answers, “We’re good.”

“We win?”

Lavellan raises her head and he can see droplets of water streaming off of her, running over her skin and beading and falling and trailing and clinging and raining of off her in actual streams. She looks away from him, raising her head - dark hair clinging to her neck and shoulders - at something else.

She looks down at him and her face is never the thing that gives her away.

“Lavellan,” He says.

“I won,” Lavellan answers, which is not the same thing as the Inquisition winning.

Fuck, he thinks, but the word doesn’t quite get out of his mouth.

The water continues to stream off of her.

“I want to take you away from this place,” Lavellan says, voice very soft. Like running your fingers through sand under the water. It is the softest and kindest he’s ever heard her speak.

Lavellan can speak plenty softly. But not like that, not usually.

“I want to take you away from this place that the sea surrendered,” Lavellan says, dark eyes darker than the sky, “I want to take you away from the problems of these creatures who have forgotten the sea in their souls. I want to take you back to my forests in the sea, I want to take you back to my brothers and sisters.”

Her eyes close and he watches her not-tears flow that much harder and heavier onto him. It’s like being held under a light waterfall.

“The ocean does not weep for something it cannot lose,” Lavellan repeats, voice wavering. “I do not weep because I have not lost you. But I cannot take you. Your place is here in this Blighted land, with these short-memoried people. Your place is among the metal and the leather and the stone.”

The water begins to glow and warm and Bull feels the sting of salt entering his wounds, pushing itself into them. Like a burn.

At the same time he feels his skin being pulled together, the muscle and flesh underneath being pushed and pulled and fused. His mind is being drawn closer to the surface, towards awareness.

The world begins to enter his senses again.

He can hear fighting. He can hear the fighting and the dying.

They’re losing, but they haven’t yet lost.

“I have no place,” the Iron Bull says as he slowly gets up. Her face is sad as she holds out his sword to him. He takes it and she moves like a pillar of water as she backs away from him. He holds her eyes with his. “I have no place in this world. I can go anywhere.”

“And what of me? You have no place, and if my place is with you then where am I? Where does your heart stay?” Lavellan asks, and then she twists into a ribbon of water and disperses, leaving him among the rubble and ruin of the Inquisition and the Wardens of Orlais. A barrier he hadn’t noticed while he was downed begins to fade away as she disappears. “What shore must I reach to find you again?”

-

“There aren’t many creatures that have joined the Inquisition,” Evelyn says. “Spirits or otherwise.”

Lavellan turns a little to acknowledge Evelyn’s unspoken question but otherwise doesn’t react.

“The Inquisition has freed and helped many spirits and creatures before,” Evelyn continues. “Most of them go back to wherever they came from. Some of them just come with us until they find something else.”

“You do a poor job of being a river. I like you better when you strike like flint,” Lavellan says, “Your nature is flame, mage, be true to it.”

“Why did you join us?” Evelyn asks.

And Lavellan smiles at her.

“I did not join you,” Lavellan says, “Just because I am here does not mean I have joined you.”

“Alright, fine,” Evelyn acquiesces, “Why did you choose the Iron Bull? It could have been anyone there with you at the time. Varric, Dalish, Krem - Dorian, even. But you chose him. Why?”

Lavellan’s face reminds Evelyn of the moon on ice.

“Will you stay with him?” Evelyn asks, allowing the first question to drop and fade away. Evelyn remembers the look on the Iron Bull’s face as he watched the Qunari ship sink, as Gatt turned shocked and disbelieving eyes on him, as he lowered the horn and watched the Chargers from afar. Evelyn remembers the set of his shoulders afterwards, when they were back here at Skyhold. And she remembers the way he handled the assassins on the castle walls. “Lavellan, will you stay with him? Please?”

Lavellan smiles again. It is a smile that laughs.

“I beach myself on his shores,” She answers, “I drag against the border of the land and I cut myself open on the remnants of previous tides. Do not ask me to stay with him, Evelyn Trevelyan. It is an insult that you should know better than to deliver.”


	308. Chapter 308

Evelyn is mostly certain this is a dream. She did not survive her Harrowing and several years of being locked in a Circle Tower surrounded by mages vulnerable by demon attacks from childhood to adulthood and beyond to not know what a dream feels like in comparison to reality.

For one thing, there are no people in Haven and no sign of any attack. For another, Evelyn’s hair is as long as it was before the Circles broke up and Evelyn had to hack it off to her shoulders because  _someone_  had accidentally set it on fire.

She misses some of her colleagues, really, but honestly the control some of them had was truly abysmal.

Also she doesn’t have the Anchor.

This is a dream. Evelyn isn’t certain as to why she is dreaming of an empty Haven. Normally Evelyn is aware of her dreams but allows them to carry her off into strange places. Evelyn submits to dream logic quite easily and usually forgets most of it when she wakes up.

Evelyn  _feels_  awake right now. She  _feels_  aware. This is not a regular dream.

“ - and you’re being absolutely ridiculous,” Evelyn turns when she hears a familiar voice. And Ellana steps out of the woods, talking to someone, something, “You aren’t cute. Don’t make that face at me. You really  _aren’t_. You are awful and I don’t know why people think you’re mysterious and alluring and all of that nonsense. You’re just a large  _boy_  who likes dragons and - “

Ellana pauses as she breaks the tree line, looking around confused.

She’s not wearing the clothes Evelyn is used to seeing her in. She’s in a loose hanging green summer dress that hangs to just above her knees, and her hair flows around her head and shoulders and down her back like a thick, voluminous shroud. She doesn’t even have arm bands on or anything.

Ellana looks around, perplexed, and then sees Evelyn.

When their eyes meet Evelyn feels it. This Ellana is not a dream.

“Hi,” Evelyn waves awkwardly. She’s accidentally run across other mages in the Fade during dreams, but she’s never actually interacted with anyone  _in_  a dream.

“Hello,” Ellana replies, sounding just as awkward and confused. She looks around and then slowly crosses to her. She leaves no tracks in the snow. “I - is this your dream?”

“I think so,” Evelyn says, “It certainly isn’t yours by the sound of it. Should I guess?”

Ellana flushes pink, “It was a very silly dream.”

“It’s cute that you dream about bickering with the Iron Bull.” Because who else could it be. Evelyn smiles, nudging Ellana with her elbow. “The two of you are very charming.”

Ellana coughs into her fist, clearing her throat before she attempts to school her features. She mostly succeeds. She looks around towards the empty Haven, the snow covered expanse of the Frostbacks, and towards the Breach in the dream-sky.

“I’ve never met another mage who could dream like this,” Ellana says finally. “I know that there are those that exist, but they are rare.”

“I’ve never dreamed like this before,” Evelyn replies. “Do you think it’s because of the Anchor?”

Ellana blinks at the Breach in the sky and turns towards Evelyn, “I trusted you with the secret of the Anchor’s origin. Can I trust you with another?”

“It depends on the secret,” Evelyn says carefully. “I promise you though, I will not allow harm to come onto any Dalish believer. Not for this.”

Ellana holds her hand out. Evelyn takes it.

“What do you know of my gods, Evelyn?” Ellana asks. “Can you name them?”

“Some, not with any real confidence,” Evelyn answers. There were Dalish born in the Circle. And the Dalish gods did occasionally come up in her studies. She doubts that the way they were portrayed carries any water. “Mythal. Andruil. Fen’Harel.”

“Jun. Ghilan’nain. Sylaise. Elgar’nan. Dirthamen. Falon’din,” Ellana says when Evelyn fails to think of any more. “Each of them have their own singular domain. We pray and look to them each for certain things, though those things my overlap. But there is one thing that is theirs and theirs alone. Falon’din and death, Dirthamen and secrets, Ghilan’nain and the forests, Andruil and the hunt, Sylaise and the hearth, Jun and the forge, Mythal and the sea, Elgar’nan and the sun.”

“Yes,” Evelyn nods. This sounds familiar.

“And the Wolf,” Ellana says, stepping backwards and gently pulling Evelyn with her, “ _Dreams_.”

-

“I miss the barracks,” Ellana says as soon as the doors to their stupidly ornate  _suite_.

Bull looks around the room, going to the windows to take a look around, “We’ve got a few hours until we need to make our big show tonight. You need to get anything done?”

“I just need to rest,” Ellana says, “We should probably bathe. It’s generous of Madame de Fer to let us use her home.”

“Better than pitching tent out in front of the palace, probably,” Bull replies with a shrug as he pokes around the room. “You’ve got our uniforms?”

“I still can’t believe that this is the design they chose. This is ridiculous. And not a single person protested? Unbelievable.”

Bull’s pretty sure that several people protested but somehow this was still the design that prevailed. Amazingly. It’s baffling.

“You want to ditch?” Bull asks, watching her as she dumps her travel pack on the floor and starts taking off her traveling gear.

“Don’t tempt me,” Ellana mutters darkly, throwing her shawl onto a settee, “If I didn’t like Evelyn so much I’d have gone for a mysterious journey for my god right about now.”

“Wait, have you ben using mysterious god journeys to get out of doing shit you don’t like?” Bull asks. “I’ve been letting you get away with too much.”

Ellana quirks an eyebrow at him as if to ask him if he’d just caught onto that now.

“I didn’t think you’d  _lie_  about your god to get out of some shit you didn’t want to do,” Bull says.

“He’s the god of lies and tricks,” Ellana retorts, “I’m not sure what you were expecting. Besides, it’s not a complete lie. In a very round about way most things I do are for my god. The Wolf likes it when I do stupid things for him.”

“Imagine how much he’d like you wearing that stupid uniform then.”

“I’m sure that wherever the Wolf is he’s laughing his furry ass off and rubbing his paws together in glee. Go call someone for water. As much as I would love to show up to this thing with dirt on my face I’d rather not make Evelyn look like a fool.”


	309. Chapter 309

“Did you enjoy yourselves last night?” Cullen asks when Ellana finally figures out her way to breakfast. Ellana resorts to having to send out a magical wave and tapping out Dorian, Dalish, Evelyn - basically  _anyone_  she knows with some sort of magical presence - with her mana until they tapped back. She followed the tap-backs until she found the food.

“Assassinations, gossip, judgmental looks, dull music, terrible perfume, and innuendo all about?” Dorian says, “It was the closest I’ve felt to Tevinter in  _months_. Let’s never do it again.”

“Agreed,” Sera says as she drips honey onto some toast. Ellana takes a seat next to her, across from Dorian. Sera nudges her with her elbow. “Did you eat anything there? I feel like by the end of the night I was starving. No matter how much I put in it felt like I just wasn’t getting full up.”

“I think I had a single cracker,” Ellana replies, “And a lot of wine. I’m surprised I don’t feel sick.”

“You and me both,” Dorian says, “You actually ate the food, Sera? What if it was  _poisoned_?”

“Quick way to get out of that perfumed fluff,” Sera mutters.

“Aside from all of that,” Cullen says, looking amused, raising his hand and waving towards Cassandra as she joins them in the dining room, “Was it…pleasant?”

“No,” Cassandra says as she takes her seat next to him, “I’m assuming you are all talking about last night. No. It was terrible.”

“I feel like at least one person here should be happy about last night,” Cullen says.

“Is it Josephine?” Ellana asks.

Dorian barks out a laugh, “Josephine is having a diplomatic nightmare on her hands regarding how she’s going to work all of these sudden new appointments and interests into the Inquisition into Evelyn’s schedule. The only upside to this is that step one of Corypheus taking over the world is officially foiled. That’s one ominous vision of the future down, one to go.”

“How are none of you hung over?”

Ellana turns and sees Evelyn in the doorway looking like a mess.

“I didn’t see you drink,” Sera says, “How are  _you_  hung over?”

“There were…a lot of drinks afterwards,” Evelyn says, feebly walking over and sitting down next to Ellana. Ellana reaches up and presses her fingers to Evelyn’s temple, sending soothing waves of cool mana at her. Evelyn lets out a weak sigh and pats Ellana’s leg. “A lot of people suddenly wanted to talk to me about  _everything_  in the world and of course there were drinks involved. I kept having to figure out ways to dump mine into potted plants or out windows.”

“The windows open?” Ellana and Sera ask at the same time.

“Oh, you couldn’t get them open either?” Ellana asks. “I thought you’d be better at it than me.”

“Since I’m good at picking locks? Yeah, but there aren’t any locks. I though they were just solid, you know. I couldn’t figure it out without looking like I was trying to rob the place or something,” Sera says.

“This feels so good, where were you all my life?” Evelyn asks, leaning into Ellana. Ellana pets her hair. “You need to teach me this.”

“It’s a Charger trick,” Ellana says, “Dalish taught it to me when I first joined.”

“Speaking of, where are the Chargers?” Cullen asks.

“Bull was gone when I woke up,” Ellana says, shrugging. Keeping her hand on Evelyn’s temple she reaches out and grabs a pear from a fruit centerpiece. She’s hoping this is an edible pear and not a fake one. Why anyone would want fake fruit is beyond Ellana’s understanding. She supposes she’s just not  _civilized_  enough for it. “And if none of you are worried I’ve decided that I’m not going to worry. They’re probably doing training drills or something of the sort.”

“And you aren’t joining them?” Cassandra asks, ripping open a bread roll and putting some cheese inside of it.

“Dalish and I don’t join the morning ones because we have to clean them up after,” Ellana answers, “We do the evening or afternoon ones and that way Stitches can patch  _us_  up.”

-

“We can never let the Iron Bull know about this,” Ellana says as soon as she dissipates her energy blade, shaking her arm out - it still feels like there’s a deep vibration going down her bones from the last impact.

“Why?” Evelyn asks, completely not understanding how urgent it is that the Iron Bull never hears about this.

“Because he will do whatever he can so he can come out here and get killed by a  _dragon_ ,” Ellana answers.

“He could win,” Blackwall says, “Stranger things have happened.”

Ellana ignores him.

“We need to kill it now,” Ellana says. “Before the Iron Bull finds out. He’ll sulk for weeks and probably be extremely cross with me, but overall it’s better than letting him find out and come rushing in  _horns up_.”

“Horns up?”

Ellana makes a gesture with her fingers, “Horns up.  _Horn_  up, really.”

Evelyn turns a very vibrant shade of red. It’s deeply unflattering on her.

Blackwall’s eyebrows raise but he makes no other comment.

Sera is, thankfully, unconscious over his shoulder as they basically had to cut their losses and  _run_  as fast as they could to get away from a  _Fereldan Frostback_.

“You want us to kill a dragon so the Iron Bull doesn’t get…excited about the possibility of running into one,” Evelyn says in a remarkably level voice.

“I want us to kill the dragon now so that it’s done and over with and I don’t have to tell the Chargers that we might lose our boss to a truly ill-fated fight with a  _dragon_ ,” Ellana says.

“Sera is unconscious,” Evelyn says, “We are deeply unprepared for fighting a  _bears_  let alone  _a dragon_ , and the Inquisition has no idea about this so we have no back up and no one would even know where to find us. This is a truly bad idea.”

“We heal Sera, we go find the closest Inquisition camp and let them know to send word back to Haven if we aren’t back in one day, and we grab as many potions as we can carry,” Ellana says. “And  _then_  we go fight the dragon.”

“It’s not like we can let it just go around terrorizing the country side,” Blackwall says. “Someone’s going to have to deal with it sooner or later.”

“And that someone is  _us_?”

“We’re dealing with a rip in the sky,” Ellana says dryly, “If you’re stuck on  _dragon_  I think maybe you aren’t seeing the bigger picture.”


	310. Chapter 310

She was supposed to come back.

That had always been the plan. Since the start of this. Since the very beginning, before this last guns-blazing push, before they took down Corypheus, before Adamant, before Celene, before Haven. That had always been the plan.

She would come back.

Maybe they had grown complacent.

Bull wishes that he could say he had told her something awesome and important. That the last things he said to her were something profound and worthwhile. But he clearly remembers that they aren’t. The downside of a memory trained to be as sharp like his is that it makes it very hard to lie to yourself.

She had said to him, last,  _Hold position, the plan is proceeding._

And he said,  _Copy._

And then she went forward. And she fought. And then she was gone.

Not a trace of her left.

The last words she had given, he wishes he could say they were equally as impactful as the words he didn’t say, that they were profound and offered some sort of peace to the people left behind, but they weren’t.

Over their earpieces, before whatever magical surge fried Ellana’s, she was heard cursing, swearing, and then - “ _Solas, get down -_ “

And then nothing.

They were gone.

No sign of them. Just gone.

When he and Pavus were less than friendly, before this fucking awful year of emptiness, before the past two years of complacency, before the months of fighting Corypheus, when they had first met there was a fight where Pavus had snarled at him -  _do as you always do then, follow. That’s all you know. You couldn’t have a single thought on your own if someone told you to have one_.

Bull finds himself reminded of that argument a lot these days.

Where do they go? What do they do? Bull has no fucking idea.

The Inquisition looks for its Inquisitor, all the while they try and keep the details of that last mission wrapped up as quietly as possible.

The identity of the Inquisitor has been kept secret this entire time. No one would need to know that there isn’t one anymore.

What is an Inquisition without its Inquisitor? Sure, Ellana had left them general directives that she wanted to take  _after_  they stopped the possible incursion of genocidal ego-maniacs but those were for later. After. They were general concepts, not actual plans or paths.

She was meant to come back afterwards.

He had thought he could, maybe, someday make peace with this incongruence. Ellana Lavellan was supposed to go with Solas and a few of their other soldiers - and Solas’ own soldiers - to go to the supposed incursion point and complete a magic ritual to cut them off. The plan was vetted by their allies dozens of times.

Ellana believed in it. In  _him_.

(“Whatever he’s done,” Ellana had said as the Iron Bull pointedly glared at the remains of her arm, “It doesn’t fucking matter right now. We can settle it later. Right now there’s something so terrible coming that he’s willing to come to  _me_  for help. I believe him.”

“Not to rub salt,” the Iron Bull had said to her as she came to stand close to him, putting her hand on his arm and gently running her palm up over his skin, “But you’ve believed him before.”

“So did you,” Ellana had said, “And now I can believe him while you get ready to stab him from behind.”)

She was meant to come back after.

She didn’t.

And then, almost seven months ago, Harding pounded on his door in the barracks - he couldn’t go back afterwards. Not without her. He can’t go back without her. Not to that house. -  until he got up and answered and she looked him in the eye, hair coming out of her pony tail, skin flushed with running and she said, “ _We found her_.”

It was grainy footage. Shitty from a gas station camera somewhere in the middle of rural Fereldan. The footage is so bad that it was like watching a beginner’s attempt at stop-motion. You could only see a frame from every few seconds.

It was  _similar_  to her.

The black and white grainy footage with terrible lighting showed a woman with dark hair - buck ass naked and covered in something - running to a car that had been left unlocked. She gets in the car. And she leaves. The owner of the car comes out running after her.

It could have been her. There had been a moment when her face had turned towards the gas station’s convenience store and her face had been caught by the camera. Grainy as it was - it was similar.

But it couldn’t have been her.

Two arms. No tattoos.

“We did a trace scan,” Dagna had said, “I know. Two arms. Can’t be her - but. Check out these readings.”

Traces of the Fade. Traces of the Anchor. Traces of Ellana’s magical signature - strange and twisted, but it had been changing due to the Anchor already. It had enough similarities.

They followed her. And they followed her.

Harding and Skinner had found ways to reach her. But she never answered.

“She must be working on something,” Rutherford had said, “Something she needs to focus on. Or perhaps it is not safe for her to contact us.”

“Then why does she not lean on us for assistance? Surely we can offer more aide,” Pentaghast replied.

But what, the Iron Bull had thought, would she be doing?

It looked more like she was running away than doing anything.

And then there was the blast. That blast that set off every alarm in the Inquisiton’s monitoring database, the alarm that lit up every monitor and machine. The blast that literally wiped off an entire city from Orlais.

Gone.

And about two or three hours away, Ellana Lavellan.

It wasn’t right. But he  _wanted_. That’s the thing. He  _wanted_.

He wanted and he waited and he looked at every single bit of footage they caught of her when she surfaced, he traced her path and listened to everyone debate and try and predict and understand. And he looked at those pictures and videos of her and thought of their house in northern Fereldan and he thought about how his last words to her were  _Copy_. Which was really just one word, not even a sentence.

He waited and he sure as fuck got in the car with the rest of them, picking up one of their soldiers by the back of his neck and physically pulling him out of one of their trucks to get behind the wheel. He drove behind them because at the time he didn’t think he could focus enough to read a map and if he had been in front he wouldn’t have had the self control not to ram anyone off the road.

He wanted. He had waited. And he followed everything they could find to  _her_. Again.

He pulled up next to the cars that formed a circle and he doesn’t think he even took the key out of ignition, he just threw down the parking brake and got out of the car and walked and he heard  _her voice_  and -

And the Iron Bull looked into her face and fucking  _knew_.

It wasn’t  _her_.

“No one noticed the eyes,” he says, staring through the one way glass into the holding cell.

“I’m sorry,” Josephine even sounds like she means it.

“They aren’t her eyes,” Bull says.

He’s never hated a shade of gray so much in his life. He didn’t know you could hate the color of someone’s  _eyes_  like this.

Josephine puts her hand on his arm and it isn’t Ellana’s hand, not with the shape and the texture of it, but Bull opens his arms anyway and he lets Josephine hug him because he’s pretty sure she needs it.

Bull isn’t the only one who loved and lost her; who waited and wanted.

“Are you sure you want to be here for this?” Leliana says, sticking her head into the room before she goes over to join Cassandra in the interrogation room. They’ve got every monitor they have on this room. Magic, temperature, air pressure, humidity -  _everything_.

(“It’s like Haven all over again,” Cullen had said as he watched them tie the woman to the chair in the sterile room.)

“Yes,” Bull says.

Leliana looks straight at him like a knife before closing the door with a silent click.

Seconds later he watches her enter the other room.

Solas’ eyes glare at them with distrust out of Ellana Lavellan’s face.

Leliana sits in front of her, Cassandra standing at Leliana’s right.

“Well then. Shall we begin?”


	311. Chapter 311

There are things that you have forgotten. I hope my message reaches you. I have no way of knowing. I can only hope, and rely on a kindness - or pity - I have cast aside the rights to having.

I am gone now. The necessity of this message means that. I am gone from this world, every world. I have faded, and the Wolf is reborn, all new. With  _you_.

There can only be  _nine_  of us. There can be less, but never any more than nine

I cede my place to you. If it was a question between you or me, I would always choose you. You are, without question, a more noble and worthy person than I. You would ask me why I did not choose you before, then. Why I chose to leave you, to abandon you and go against you. Then it was not a question of you or me, it was a question of you or  _them_  and I chose them. The people I had abandoned and left to ruin. The people that became  _you_.

And then you chose the world over our people.

In the end your will won over my own. Your message reached me. Your words reached me.

Rebirth is messy business. I cede my dreams to yours. I cede my will to yours. You’ve won, the world is yours to claim.

But I do not know if you will remember that.

I leave you these messages with my brothers and sisters and I hope that they have mercy enough to give them to you, to not let you wander lost and alone. I hope that they will grant you a kindness that I never gave them. I hope more than anything that they do not hold my crimes against them against you, that they do not place the burden of my murders onto your shoulders.

They do not know you, Ellana Lavellan. You posses within you a kindness made of steel, harder than any diamond.

I wish there was more I could give you, aside from a new life. I wish I could guarantee it would be a good life. I cannot.

There is so much to tell you, da’len. So much. And I do not have the time. Or the assurance that it will stay with you.

Here is what I can try to give you -

There is a man who you love. A house that you have made your home. People who love you.

There are things that you left behind unfinished, and there is a calling that you have found that raises you above rest and satisfaction.

There is a man you must return to. There is a person who loves you beyond compare. Beyond envy. Go back to him. Go back to that home the two of you have built together to welcome in all the people who love you. Go back to your causes, go back to your wars against poverty and inequality. Go back to that.

Go back to the house that the two of you built to hide all of your licked wounds. I remember that house. I was welcome there, once. Do you still have the painting I made for you? A painting of the Storm Coast on a calm spring day. The sky was gray. If you look closely you can see the man you love on a cliff. And next to him there is the woman I am proud to have watch you grow into.

What else to tell you?

You are not the woman you were before. You are something made of other things. I cannot say you can return to that person. You can return to that place, and I want you to return to that life, but I do not know how well it will fit you again. I can only hope.

You fought me for the world and won. Shape it into a place that you can live in.

Stay away from the others. Don’t go after them. They will not seek you, I don’t think.

No, not even Mythal. She has suffered enough. Let her fade silently surrounded in the place  _she_  has made for herself. The place she will make for herself.

I wish I could agree with you. But all I can say is that you won. I wish I could say that I am watching over you, that I am looking at what you choose to do with the life I surrendered for you. But I am not. I will not.

The simple truth of it is - I am gone. You cannot find me. You will never find me. If there is anything left of me, it is whatever the magic of the Fade used of me to create your  new life. And it is not me, not anymore. It is you. It is yours. Perhaps you will find me in the painting I gave you when you and the Iron Bull opened your home to me.

Maybe you have already disposed of it when I first struck against you.

I will never know.

I will not say I love you. It would be a disrespect to you and those who actually do love you, otherwise. I cannot say that I love you,  _loved you_ , because if I did, I think I would have understood you better. If I truly did love you, maybe we would both exist in the world at the same time and this message would never need to have been made. Given. Wished.

I respect you. And I am proud of you, in a grudging way. The way you took the things you found and crafted them into something dangerous and wondrous. I respect how you took the things taken and stolen from you and made them yours again.

I respect that you looked into the face of every danger, and did not spit, but calmly nodded and continue to walk. Your stubborn determination walked everything that tried to stick to you into the ground. You outlasted everything.

And you handled it with a better grace than I ever did.

There is a man who loves you more than I have ever loved anything. I think he knows that he loves you more than he has loved anything. Go back to him.

He’s yours. It’s all yours.

I hope this message, this last thought of mine finds you. As I think it, we are already slipping past time. In this very moment that has been stretched into several thoughts, I am being unmade and a new god is being born.

You are being born. In a few moments you will be made of the remains of whatever the Fade decides is worth taking from me, and the pieces we have stolen from the others while we were here. If you remember this, I think you will be very upset with me.

I am one thing you can never reclaim.

The most important thing I hope the Fade puts in you is the memory of that man, the Iron Bull. I hope that whatever the Fade takes from us in the process of rebirth, it lets you keep him. Lets you keep my message to go back to him.

There are no promises or assurances in the Fade, in this sort of messy magic.

I can only hope that your love for him is stronger than memories.

Once more, or perhaps for the first time, then.

Goodbye.


	312. Chapter 312

“Whatever it is, it goes beyond magic,” Dorian says, tossing his lab coat onto his desk.

Cassandra and Leliana exchange looks of disbelief as Dorian runs his hand through his hair, still looking at his notes.

“Don’t get me wrong. She can  _do_  magic. She seems to remember the basics of most spell work and rune craft. She has about the same level of her understanding of sigils and circle-based rituals. The higher level things seem to be instinctual. We were able to get her to cast them by throwing scenarios at her, but she couldn’t explain the fundamental principles of causation and methodology behind them. So she is still magic capable. She is still a mage. But the other things? That isn’t magic anymore.”

“What do you mean it isn’t magic anymore?” Cassandra asks.

“I mean that magic is like science. You can explain it. You create fire by superheating particles into excited states of friction by increasing the concentration and energy of mana in your target area. You can call frost by doing the opposite - slowing and draining energy. You can heal wounds by the same theory of slowing infections and and by encouraging cellular regrowth. Shields are just particles being held like solids in air. Magic and science corroborate with each other.”

“And Lavellan?”

Dorian meets Leliana’s eyes and says in a very steady voice, “There is no magic or science in the world that can readily explain what she did in that laboratory. I know what I saw. I know what our instruments recorded. And there wasn’t a single  _blip_  that would suggest this was new magic. This was - I don’t know what it was.”

“Is she a danger to us?” Cassandra asks. Dorian gives her credit. She hides the sadness well. Dorian is certain that if he weren’t so damn terrified of the things he just watched his formerly dead best friend do he would be that sad also.

It has been a very trying few days.

“Convince her you aren’t,” Dorian says. “And make her believe it. I don’t think that’s all she can do. Lavellan - amnesiac or not - always has something up her sleeve.”

“And what of the Anchor? The arm that grew back?” Leliana asks. “Can you tell us anything about that?”

“It has her DNA,” Dorian says, “It’s definitely  _her arm_. No sign of withering or disease. It doesn’t look like it was just regrown. No atrophy or anything. It looks like a normal arm, except for the Anchor. And something else. But its’ not just the arm, it’s all of her.”

“What?” Cassandra asks as Dorian quickly turns to one of the computers and starts opening files.

“It’s her,” Dorian says, “I want to stress this to you. It is definitely Ellana Lavellan. Changes to her magical aura and amnesia aside, it’s her. It’s her DNA. It’s just…different.”

“Different how?”

“Minor incongruences,” Dorian says carefully, “Just. Strange things. And this. Look, here. Her telomeres. They’re  _new_.”

“Meaning? For those of us who aren’t as well versed as you, Dorian?”

“These telomeres,” Dorian explains, “Don’t match that of a person who would be in their mid-thirties. They break down over time. They have limits to their replication. It’s what causes us to age and change as we grow older. These aren’t the telomeres of someone who’s been aging for thirty plus years. These are  _new_. No signs of fraying or degrading. None. At all. It’s like she was just  _born_. I’m running more tests to see if it’s a fluke, some isolated anomaly, but I don’t think it is.”

“A clone?” Leliana asks.

“No. A clone would have the same fraying as its source material. This is like - an entirely  _new_  person,” Dorian says, “Who just happens to have Ellana Lavellan’s genetic imprint and magical aura.”

The three of them are silent as the think this over.

“And the Anchor?” Leliana asks. “Any changes from our last records?”

“Several,” Dorian says, dragging his hand over his eyes. “I’ll need Dagna to confirm what I’m seeing off of it. Biology and genetics as well as quantum theory? No problem. Studies of the Fade and energy manipulation? A step or two outside of my wheelhouse. But from what I’ve seen so far? It’s evolved.”

“Like it did before?” Cassandra asks, “When it was - growing on her?”

A polite way to say slowly poisoning and killing her like a cancer.

“No, then it was like…a parasite. Feeding off of her like a host to grow larger. Now it’s. I think it’s  _part of her_ ,” Dorian says carefully. “I really need Dagna and some other specialists before I say anything else. But no, it isn’t the same Anchor as before.”

-

Ellana opens and closes her hands.

It’s called  _the Anchor_.

She has a last name -  _Lavellan_.

She knew the Inquisition before. Was she still running from them? Were they a threat to her? They acted like she should know them. They were disappointed. They looked sad.

Was she part of the Inquisition?

They’ve put her in an underground cell. There have been tests. The lead doctor - scientist? - was a mage named Dorian Pavus. He kept looking at her like she had broke his heart. Why? Sometimes he would say things and there would be what felt like a velvet fingertip of recognition down the back of her skull. Just out of reach of snagging, catching, holding, revealing.

Ellana runs her thumb across the glassy shard of green in her palm.

It’s changed again. She didn’t - she didn’t devour Elgar’nan on purpose. But when he…immolated himself the Anchor must have snagged onto parts of him. Sucked him in and swallowed it.

She can feel him. She can feel the heat of him in her, now. No. It’s not him anymore, it’s  _hers_. She can feel it becoming  _hers_. Just like with Falon’din. Just like with Andruil. It’s making her stronger.

But it’s not bringing her any closer to the mystery of who she was, of where their missing tenth member is. The tenth member that everyone denies.

But she knows he existed. He cannot have disappeared.

Another thing she has learned -

These eyes are not her own. Ellana Lavellan did not have gray eyes.

Gray like the sea, gray the way Mythal loved, gray like the tenth member who disappeared like froth on a tide.

Gray, the man with the horns had said,  _how did you miss that the eyes are gray?_   _She had -_

Ellana had fallen asleep again before she could find out what she had before.

Who was this man to her? Why did everyone look at him whenever a question as asked, whenever a suggestion was made? Who was this man, to be the judge and arbiter of her fate?

A voice that is and isn’t hers analyzes the situation. A calm rationality she isn’t sure the source of takes the situation apart like a machine and lays the individual parts out in front of her, clear to read.

He is not important in the Inquisition. Not as important as the others. But he is not a regular rank and file member, either.

But to her - to the Ellana Lavellan she was before. He was important.

 _Who are you?_  She wanted to ask, but he was never in the room with her - always behind glass and walls.

Who are you, she could tell he wanted to ask back.

Who are you?

I don’t know, Ellana would have answered.  _I am looking_.

I am looking for who I am in places I cannot remember.


	313. Chapter 313

Ellana leans forward in the backseat of the car, bracing her hand on the front passenger seat as she looks ahead of them.

She knows these roads.

Ellana has never been here before - not. Not since the attic. No. But she’s been here. She’s dreamed - remembered this place.

And it was  _her_  memory.

Not June’s, not Falon’din’s, or Mythal’s, or anyone else’s. It was  _her_  memory.

This is the main road the goes to  _her_  house.

Ellana knows this. She knows this deeper than anything. She can feel this road, as this car driven by a woman named Cassandra Pentaghast, shortens and turns and Ellana’s head turns before the car does because she knows - she knows.

If you turn on this street it’s faster even if it’s side roads, but the side roads are always empty and there’s always some sort of jam-up about two stops down because of left turns and poor timing on the intersection’s signals.

Ellana’s head turns before the car does and she feels her heart beating faster in her chest.

The handcuffs around her wrists buzz against her skin with magical suppression, but she can feel her  _soul_  coming alive in a way she doesn’t think she could ever have anticipated, wanted, dreamed of.

Is this what everyone wanted her to come back to this entire time?

If she had known that this feeling, that this  _resurrection of her soul_ , was waiting for her she would have abandoned the others to their destruction long ago.

(That is a lie, it is a lie she desperately wants to be true, because she wants this. She wants what lies four more turns, two stop signs, and a cul-de-sac away from this point in space. She wants it so much that her eyes sting and her heart pounds with the promise of  _memory, at last_. Peace. Possibly.)

If Ellana had known that her home - the home of Ellana, the person she is, was,  _should be_  - was waiting for her, so close, so easily found by  _surrender_ , she thinks she would have…

She would have done something. Maybe.

And there it is.

The yard is a little overgrown, but not terribly.

She has hydrangeas. Ellana’s hands remember pulling them stubbornly from the pots she bought them in - light brown, flimsy plastic, two and a half feet deep - and she remembers spacing them out with measured string. Her body remembers the sun on her shoulders.

There is no car in the driveway.

Ellana gets out of the car after the man named Blackwall, who steadies her arm as she gets out of the truck. Ellana breathes in and she swears that the air itself breezes through her lungs, her mind, and leaves her stunned. Refreshed. Renewed. Remembering.

Behind her she can hear Montilyet and Cassandra get out of the car. The man who was sitting on her other side - Rylen - says something to them but she can’t quite focus on the words. Her mind is full of buzzing static-y  _excitement_. It’s like her throat is going to close.

It’s like she’s going to cry.

How could she not have known she needed this so much? That she missed this so much?

Ellana didn’t know until she saw that street sign about five or six ( _eight minutes, forty five seconds. That is the time it takes to get from Valley Boulevard to here on a Tuesday past ten in the morning)_  minutes ago and her heart started to remember for her head.

Rylen unlocks and removes her handcuffs.

Ellana moves forward, pulling her arm from Blackwall’s hand as she walks up the path to the front door. Up the steps of the porch and right up to the screen door.

She turns to the side and there’s the flower pot with the jade plant, shaded from the sun, she reaches just underneath he curved lip of the pot and her fingers find the key waiting for her.

You have to push the screen door up just a little as you’re opening it.

And then there’s the house door itself. The key slides in easily and Ellana opens the door to the house that was waiting for her and her vision swims with tears her heart didn’t know it was waiting for.

Ellana pockets the key and walks into the house she is now remembering she was supposed to be missing this entire time.

She turns to the first entry in the hallway and there’s the living room she dreamed - remembered. And she turns to her right and there on the other side of the hallway is the kitchen where the man she was missing was making coffee or tea or something.

Ellana rushes up the stairs, feet knowing which parts of the stairs to rest on because the other parts creak, and she throws open the door to the first room on her right.

Empty.

Ellana blinks, staring into the room with the windows that look over the front  yard and the green-blue curtains and the white crochet blanket folded on the foot of the bed and the mostly empty desk and the pressed dried flowers on paper on the walls.

She turns when she hears the creak of the stairs and the words come to her mouth from her heart - that remembers - instead of her head - which can’t.

“Where is Cole?”

She turns back to the empty room - the stuffed nug and the much repaired rabbit are missing from the book case. The small collection of hats, gone from the hooks hung on the right side wall. Ellana walks into the room and the air is stale and there’s a layer of dust on everything.

She quickly opens a drawer - empty. Another drawer. Empty. The closet. Empty.

She turns and pushes past Rylen and to the door on the other side of the stairs, the door with the handle that’s different from all the other doors because when they first moved in the door got stuck and they decided to replace the entire thing but they couldn’t find matching handles to the rest of the house and they were too lazy to replace all the handles so they just have this one mis-matched door. The door that, beyond it, she knows there are three large windows that overlook the right side of the house and the back yard. The door that conceals a large king sized bed with five fluffy pillows and a huge dresser filled with sweaters and sweatpants and shirts and pajamas and underwear. A door that hides behind it a myriad of memories that include the argument about the rug they put on the floor and how it was unnecessary but also it gets cold in the mornings and who wants to deal with cold feet? And the argument about whether they need  _two_  alarm clocks in the room just because they each wake up at different times and  _you most certainly cannot eat potato chips in this room_. And of course whether or not the oil painting of the Storm Coast should stay - it didn’t.

Ellana, afterwards, moved it out of their room because she didn’t want him to have to look at it and bite his tongue and  _bear it_  just because she wasn’t ready to let go. But she didn’t destroy it. She didn’t throw it away. She kept it.

Ellana throws the door open and her heart crashes because it’s  _empty_.

Bare. Stripped away. Gone.

“This is your house,” Montilyet says and Ellana turns and sees that Montilyet is standing at the top of the stairs, hand resting on the banister, eyes filled with caution and worry and concern. “We thought it would be best if you were to recover here.”

“No,” Ellana says, voice small and shaking because this  _isn’t_  her house. She can see it now. Dust on everything. Pictures missing off of walls. “This isn’t - this isn’t my house.”

The things that made it her house are gone.

Their house.

“Where are they?” Ellana asks. “Where is my family?”


	314. Chapter 314

“They’re my brothers and sisters,” Ellana says.

And what does that make her? Murderer, cannibal? She didn’t eat their bodies, but something of them - something of their souls, of their  _essence_ , and something of their physical presence in this world was eaten by the thing that is called the Anchor.

They were her brothers and sisters, for all that they each denied her as one of theirs. And she destroyed two of them, and apparently his hatred of her was so strong that she drove a third to suicide.

Ellana hates that she is at the mercy of this Inquisition. She hates that she isn’t sure if they’re credible or not.

Everyone told her to avoid them. That it wouldn’t be good for her to be caught by them.

And yet -

The Inquisition took her  _home_. The members of the Inquisition look at her like they care. Like they are hurt by the sight of her in a different way than Sylaise and June and Andruil and Mythal and all the rest were.

The siblings that deny her looked at her like she was something wretched and painful that should never have existed, like she was some sort of monster that had done them wrong, that they had hoped to never see again come back to haunt them and finish whatever work it had began.

The people of the Inquisition look at her like a gift lost, like something just beyond reach - but remembered well. Something that was once had, and now lost. Something once loved, now taken.

But why would they look at her like that?

Shouldn’t she be the one who looks at them that way?

They have her house. They have - somewhere, Cole and the man in her dream-memories. They have, Ellana thinks, more knowledge about her than they should have.

They know about the Anchor. They know about - other things.

They’ve provided her food and clothes. They know the clothes she likes. They know the foods she eats. Even the ways she likes to eat them.

They know her routines.

“The Evanuris,” Leliana - no last name given -, says carefully, “You believe the Evanuris are your family?”

“I know they’re my family. We were born together,” Ellana answers. Between answering and giving them nothing, Ellana thinks she’s making more headway giving them something. She thinks -

Ellana thinks that she  _did_  know these people. As coworker or test subject or something else. She thinks she knows them.

Because just like they know  _her_  she’s remembering  _them_. Not fully, but as Leliana talks Ellana finds her mind filing things in.

Leliana is a hard woman to read. But something in Ellana remembers learning her codes and how to solve the cypher of Leliana.

It’s like remembering to read a language you learned in school - bits and pieces floating back.

“Where were you born?”

“I don’t remember,” Ellana answers. There are many questions that they ask where the answer is  _I don’t know_  and  _I don’t remember_. They aren’t lies.

“Where did you grow up?”

“The Free Marches,” Ellana answers. And then there are the many questions where her mind supplies the answer before the rest of her can understand it. Many of these questions Ellana has already asked herself so many times. Tried to ask the others so many times.

Why do the answers come only  _now_?

This time they are not in an interrogation room.

They are sitting in the living room of the hollowed out house that should have been Ellana’s home. Their home.

(Ellana. Cole.  _What. Is. His. Name?)_

There is a large chunk of her mind dedicated to trying to untangle this mystery of why this house is no longer a home. The Inquisition has the keys to it, she knows.

Ellana wants to seize Leliana by the shoulders and shake her and demand those keys. She wants to hold her hands over Leliana’s face and rearrange it like clay - like Falon’din would do - until she got the answers, ringed and squeezed and pulled out of Leliana like taffy.

“Can you name everyone in your family, Ellana? What are their names?” Leliana asks, eyes calm and gentle as she tries to coax something out of Ellana that doesn’t exist. This isn’t a lie. This is the truth.

“Elgar’nan, Mythal, June, Sylaise, Falon’din and Dirthamen, Andruil, Ghilan’nain,” Ellana answers. And one more. One more who no one will let her know of, one more that they all deny in their own ways, one more that Ellana knows must exist because the answer Mythal gave her was not an answer.

“And?”

“And what?” Ellana asks.

“And is there no one else?” Leliana asks. “Another sibling?”

Ellana narrows her eyes at Leliana. “Another sibling.”

“Yes. Don’t you have another? A brother?”

 _You have his eyes_.

Ellana searches Leliana for any clue, any sign. Does the Inquisition know? Did he - did he work with the Inquisition? Is that, perhaps, why everyone is so eager to write him off and leave him to whatever fate he’s fallen into?

Is that why they hate her, too?

“I can’t remember his name,” Ellana admits. “But I know he exists.”

Leliana smiles, and it is possibly the first sincere and unguarded thing Ellana has seen from the woman.

“His name was Mahanon,” Leliana says.

 _Mahanon_ , Ellana turns the name over in her head, and then in her mouth.

“No,” Ellana says, shaking her head, “That’s not…that’s not his name.”

Leliana’s face closes abruptly. “It doesn’t?”

“No. It doesn’t,” Ellana says, “My brother’s name isn’t Mahanon. He - that doesn’t fit. I don’t remember his name, but I know it wasn’t that.”

“Is that so?” Leliana says, leaning backing the armchair that isn’t hers.

It sits across the room from another chair. A reclining chair.  Much bigger and more worn than the one Leliana sits in now. Ellana’s eyes turn to that chair, now. It’s made for someone very large. And when Ellana had put her hands on it earlier it had felt very comfortable. Ellana closed her eyes and imagined lying down in it. Ellana imagined feeling weightless in it.

And Ellana remembered another body, larger than hers, lying down on it and her lying down on  _that_  body and Ellana remembered dozing in afternoon warmth and she remembered watching reruns on Saturday afternoons in that chair. Ellana remembered a hand idly going up and down her back and her arm and she remembered the vibration of a voice against her ear with her head pressed against a chest.

“Yes,” Ellana says.

“Can you tell me about the order you and your siblings were born in?” Leliana asks, back to calm and clinical questioning.

“Elgar’nan is the eldest and then Mythal,” Ellana answers. “Then Sylaise and Andruil. Then the twins and Ghilan’nain and then finally June.”

“And what of you? And your brother? Where do the two of you fit?”

“He’s after Mythal,” Ellana answers. And then pauses, mind catching on where  _she_  fits. “We were born at the same time.”

It isn’t the truth. But it isn’t a lie.

Ellana doesn’t remember where she fits. But Mythal -

It isn’t true. Of course it isn’t true. He exists. Somewhere. He is alive. Somewhere. Ellana knows she’s younger than all of them. But Mythal -

And they existed together at the same time. So there’s that.

But  _she has his eyes_.

“We are twins,” Ellana says, turning back to Leliana and her eyes catch on the reflection of light on the blank television screen and white fills her vision for a moment and her reflection looks strange and distorted and -

 _Mahanon_.

A sharp, sudden, explosion of wailing wanting pierces through her chest so hard she feels herself gasp, she feels her hand clench at her chest and her  _ribs feel like they tighten against her lungs_.

Mahanon.

And a horrible, horrible thing croaks its way out of her that sounds a lot like the word  _vhenan_ , and her eyes burn hot, hot, hot.

Mahanon.

And she  _remembers_.

How could she have forgotten? Mahanon - her brother, her twin. Mahanon who looked nothing at all like her and yet was her. Mahanon with the roll of his eyes and the careless shrug of his shoulders. Mahanon with the dry delivery of his unimpressed replies to questions he thought were redundant. Mahanon with his long fingers that curled around hers.

Memories.

A hand that is certainly hers throws a handful of bright orange and brown leaves at Mahanon’s face as he grins and chases her with a stick. Mahanon’s voice chasing after her as she ran out of the house laughing because she’d stolen his favorite jacket and sewn a patch of a kitten onto the shoulder and her own laughter a week later when she watched Mahanon march towards the school bus wearing that exact jacket with the same patch on it, shoulders held back and proud. Mahanon’s hair in her hands as she braided it and talked to him about maybe dying it pink or green or lavender and Mahanon grunting to show that he was listening even though he was flipping through a comic book. Mahanon’s mouth when she poked at his lip and grimaced and told him that he should probably go to the ER and he told her that the other guy  _definitely_  had to go to the ER.

Mahanon.

Mahanon’s hand, limp in her own as she screamed and wailed and fell over his body and stronger hands than hers pulled her from him. Mahanon’s blood on her hands, not even warm anymore, and Mahanon’s beautiful hair clumped with it.

Mahanon, Mahanon, Mahanon.

How could she forget?

And with the memories come the wave of heat, familiar and not. Hers and also not hers.

The flame that was once Elgar’nan’s vengeance, now hers, crackles from her insides out. Heat. Impossible heat and fire and rage for the person who took Mahanon away from her.

Ellana’s vision clears and her hands are hot because they  _are on fire_  and Ellana turns to Leliana who is holding a gun to aimed at Ellana’s head like it would do anything.

Ellana’s voice cracks and burns and sizzles with a grief that she didn’t realize anyone was capable of living with - and then realizes that  _she_  had been living with it, that she had forgotten it, and Ellana’s anger grows because she wants to know how anyone could have taken this from her, they last remaining living remnant of her twin, her living anger - and she chokes out the word through a throat that is tight and dry and burning, “Mahanon.”

Leliana’s hands don’t shake and neither does her voice.

“Yes. Mahanon.”

“I lost him,” Ellana says. “He was taken from me. He took Mahanon from me.”

“Who took Mahanon from you, Ellana?”

There is no answer to be found in Ellana’s grief. Ellana shakes her head.

_I don’t know. I don’t know._

(How much is there to remember? What other burning forests does her heart have hidden from the rest of her?

Who else was taken from her?)


	315. Chapter 315

“We need fighting Pokemon.”

“I don’t know why you’re all looking at me,” Bull says, “My only fighting type is my Blaziken and she’s currently out of commission.”

“I look at you,” Dorian says, “And I am continuously baffled at how your Pokemon don’t match your appearance at all.”

Bull reaches up and steadies the Snubull climbing up his shoulder and trying to gnaw on one of his horns, he gives Pookie a quick scratch under the jaw. “I was an undercover spy. What kind of spy has stupidly ostentatious Pokemon? A bad one. Also. You probably shouldn’t judge, Tevinter. I don’t see any Ghost or Dark types on your roster.”

“He does have poison types, though,” Sera says, “I’ve got fighting types. What else do we need?”

“I think we’re going to need a Tyranitar,” Dorian says.

“Again, I don’t know why you all are looking at me. You damn well know that Lavellan’s the one with the Tyranitar.”

“I can’t believe her Tyranitar is named Acorn,” Sera says to Dorian, “If there were ever any two people with the most fucking  _weirdest_  rosters that don’t match them it’s these two lumps. No wonder they’re so good to each other.”

“To be fair, she didn’t get a Tyranitar and name him Acorn. She got a  _Larvitar_  and named him Acorn and then he got big,” Bull says.

“That can be said for her entire roster,” Dorian muses. “Alright. So we’ll borrow Ellana’s Tyranitar. Bull’s Blaziken is out for this. Sera, can we use your Hitmontop?”

“I’d say yes but I’m not going with you on this one so I don’t know if she’ll actually  _listen_  to any of you,” Sera points out. “I’d say she only listens to me but that’s a lie and I own up to that.”

Bull picks Pookie up and dislodges him with a firm pull. Pookie grows but settles contentedly once Bull starts scratching him underneath the chin and around the ears, tucking the Snubull into the crook of his arm.

“We need more fighting Pokemon. How can we be running an army and  _not_  have any fighting Pokemon among us?”

“We have them, we just don’t know the names of the specific people who have them.”

“Someone ought to make a list of who has what,” Dorian says, “The fact that we don’t have one of these already is a mark of extreme failure on this organization’s behalf and I’m not fixing it because I have enough to do on my own without going about and cataloguing every single Pokemon that the Inquisition has at its disposal. Also I don’t think anyone would tell the Tevinter pariah what their roster is. They’d think I was up to some sort of devious plotting.”

“My Wigglytuff knows double slap,” Bull says. “Also Krem has a Machoke. So that’s…four fighting type Pokemon. Three and then one Pokemon that knows double slap.”

“That’s not a fighting type move.”

“Yeah but it’d hurt,” Bull shrugs, “I mean. Have you seen my Wigglytuff? Wiggly _buff_.”

-

“Why was Ellana crying earlier?” Cullen asks Josephine as he comes into her office on his way to the command center. “I saw her out in the hall and she looked very upset. Did something happen?”

“She was face-timing her Ivysaur,” Josephine explains, shaking her head and setting her pen down, waving him in. “I think the long distance relationship is very hard on them. She was using the command center because it’s quiet and it’s unlikely that anyone would come in to disturb her there.”

“Ah,” Cullen nods, “She could just have him transferred here. There’s plenty of room for him.”

“He’s sickly, apparently. The sudden climate change might tip him over and put him into some dire straights. Ellana doesn’t want to risk it, as much as she wants to have him at her side again,” Josephine replies shaking her head, “It’s safer for him to stay on her family’s farm where he’s used to the climate and they’re used to taking care of him. She does miss him something awful, though. Oh, Cullen. Her Ivysaur cries just as hard as she does whenever they have to say goodbye. He was her first Pokemon after all, he’s been with her for so long it must be awful to not be at each other’s sides anymore. The separation must be very hard for them. I can’t imagine it. I don’t want to, honestly.”

Cullen still remembers his family’s Growlithe. He misses him. Mia takes care of him and she often tells Cullen that he should come visit before…before he passes away. He’s a very, very old Pokemon. He was already fairly old when  _Cullen_  was born.

“Was your Skitty your first Pokemon, Josephine?” Cullen asks, nodding towards the Skitty curled up on the windowsill behind Josephine’s desk.

“Ah, no. She was a surprise encounter I met when I was attending finishing school,” Josephine replies, smiling fondly at the dozing Skitty. “My first Pokemon was my Persian when he was still a Meowth. Anyway, what news, Commander?”

“Ah, I wanted to take another look at the War Table. I know we have current versions digitally stored on our servers and all,” Cullen sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, “But there’s something different about seeing it in person. I just like being able to hold the markers and such.”

“The table is yours, Commander. I think Leliana might come around - she’s been sending her Misdreavus in to check on some things for her now and again - but otherwise I think you will be undisturbed.”

“Thank you, Josephine,” Cullen says, tapping his fingers on the edge of her desk - smiling at Josephine’s Poplio, curled up on a little basket on the floor. The small water Pokemon grins up at him, perking up. - as he nods in thanks before heading towards the command center next to her office, “If anyone asks for me - which I’m sure they will - let them know I’m in there.”

“Of course, Cullen.”


	316. Chapter 316

There have been a string of bodies washed up on the Storm Coast. It’s not entirely unusual. There are plenty of fools who love to cliff dive and the Storm Coast wasn’t named for its altogether pleasant and serene nature.

What has been unusual is the frequency. A dozen in a month. And all of the bodies drowned, pulled out by the waves.

People drown by the sea.

These people? Were not at the sea.

Or at least, they shouldn’t have been.

They should have been in their beds asleep. And yet their loved ones, their friends, their neighbors, report them missing - or identify them once the news hits.

And that is Max’s sort of unusual.

“It’s got to be some sort of ghost. A poltergeist even,” Maxwell tells Evelyn as he kicks sand on his way down to the shore, “What else would it be?”

Evelyn pulls her jacket closed and shivers against the cold wind, “Siren?”

“No singing,” Maxwell points out, “And a siren’s call targeting a specific person in the middle of the night? Unlikely.”

“It could be a demon,” Evelyn suggests, looking around the altogether rather barren shoreline. “There haven’t been any unusual deaths or murders prior to this. I don’t think it’s a ghost.”

“There was one,” Maxwell says.

“One.” Evelyn nods as they stop by a tide pool, watching the surf come in with a loud rushing sound. “It was almost a hundred years ago, though. I don’t see why a ghost would suddenly start a haunting  _now_. And it wasn’t even a murder. It was an accident.”

“An unusual accident,” Maxwell replies. “She was just  _walking_  by the shore and then she was gone.”

“She was old,” Evelyn says, “She could have been grabbed by a strong wave. Look at them, Max. The Storm Coast isn’t the calmest shore.”

“They never found the body.”

“Not unusual.”

Maxwell nudges Evelyn with his elbow, offering her the long stick he’d found on the walk from the parking lot to here.

“Let’s just give it a try.”

Evelyn sighs and takes the stick, going to find some sand that’s just out of reach of the tide to draw a summoning circle in.

“Let’s just try  _spirit_ ,” Evelyn says. “And if we don’t get anything we’ll just keep narrowing it down until we do.”

“Sure,” Maxwell agrees, offering the back of his hand for the small knife Evelyn pulls out. It feels like a little pinch, Evelyn’s gotten so good at this.

All she needs is a drop or two.

Evelyn hands him a band aide from her bag as they wait for the magic to settle.

The summoning circle is pretty vague. And not very powerful. It’s more of a spiritual  _hello, how are you?_  rather than anything binding.

They save the harder stuff for later.

Maxwell’s zoning out listening to the sound of the waves, watching the tide come in and out, in and out, in and out, when he sees a shape walking towards them from the water.

At first it looks like a long line of white seafoam that’s been dragged out strange.

But as the tide comes in and out, in and out, in and out, it builds, rolls, tumbles, and grows.

It’s the shape of a woman.

As she glides onto the shore, her body made of water and foam, still connected to the tide that stops receding where she stands, she rushes forward all the way to the edge of Evelyn’s spell circle.

“Hello,” She says as her head takes solid shape, the rest of her remaining vague and nebulous liquid.

“Hi,” Maxwell says, “I’m Max. This is Evelyn. What can we call you?”

“Ellana,” The water woman says, and tendrils of water pull away from her main body and braid themselves into a rough hand and then finger pointing down at the spell circle, “That’s charming work. I haven’t seen anything like this in a very long time. Be careful with that. The folks around here don’t take too kindly to such things.”

“They take even less kindly to being picked off one by one,” Maxwell says. “I’m looking for whoever is the cause of the drownings. That wouldn’t happen to be you, would it, Ellana?”

Ellana tilts her head, “Drownings? No. I haven’t come to shore in a very long time. Not since I returned.”

Maxwell and Evelyn exchange a look.

“Are you - are you the woman who was dragged in by the waves ninety years ago?” Evelyn asks.

Ellana laughs, and the water of her moves from side to side like a geyser that’s playing musical chairs. She spins like a hurricane, salt water speckling Maxwell’s face.

“Dragged in?” Ellana laughs, “I suppose it might have looked that way. It was me, but I wasn’t  _dragged_  in. I walked in.”

“So you didn’t - you aren’t restless dead?” Maxwell asks.

“Not at all,” Ellana says, “Max, you’d know restless dead that came from the ocean if you saw one. I can assure you I’m not. No. I wasn’t dragged in. I was going home.”

“Can I ask what you are?”

“You can,” Ellana says, “I might even answer. Tell me, where do people like yourselves learn things like this?”

Ellana points again at the spell circle.

“Oh, I died once when I was like, twelve and I’ve been able to see ghosts and things ever since,” Maxwell says, “And Evelyn went to college. So like. You know. People who go to college talk to ghosts and stuff.”

Evelyn lets out a very long sigh and Ellana laughs.

“Is that one still going around? That’s lovely. For that I’ll tell you - I’m an ocean spirit. I can’t drown. I was just going home after spending some time on land. I hold no grudges or ill will to any land folk. I wasn’t mistreated and I came to no harm during my time here. I’m actually rather fond of the memories I made on land.”

“Could you help us find the source of what’s killing people?” Evelyn asks.

Ellana hums, her water moving from side to side as she thinks.

“You can see ghosts?” Ellana asks.

“Yup, makes me look like a right lunatic sometimes,” Maxwell replies.

Ellana’s mouth twists as she thinks before she says with measured words - the water around her growing very still and quiet, moving in the smallest of ripples  - “The last time I came to land it was to be with someone very important to me. And for a very long time we traveled together and shared our days and nights. When he died I felt no need to stay and returned to the sea. He died on and and so to the land he returned, and passed beyond my sight. Could you help me find his spirit?”

“If he was content,” Maxwell says just as carefully, “There might not be anything to find.”

Ellana shakes her head, “He passed content, but there would still be something left. He was not mortal or mundane.”

“I could try,” Maxwell says.

“Then I will also try,” Ellana holds out her hand. Maxwell watches as the water turns into a hand, flesh and bone and sinews and all that solid material stuff.

It’s even not as cold as you would think, as Maxwell takes it and shakes it.

“Then we have a deal, Ellana.”


	317. Chapter 317

“Careful, keep low,” Evelyn says, releasing Ellana by one the spines behind her jaw. Ellana blinks and starts to slowly creep along the sand towards the Venatori swarmed archeological site. Evelyn pulls a little harder on the spine she has in her other hand, waiting for Mahanon to focus on her. “Careful, Mahanon. They have anti-dragon weapons.”

She doesn’t let go until Mahanon gives a blink that is also possibly a nod and rocks his head into her, give her a gentle nudge.

She lets him go and he quickly goes off after his sister.

The only tracks each dragon leaves is the small indentation from their fore-claw knuckles and a very, very lightly placed divot from their hind legs. It would look like they’re slithering, except for how their bellies never touch the cooling desert sand.

The Iron Bull is a dark shadow waiting several yards away, hunkered down as low as he could get, burrowing into the sand and letting Herah and Malika push sand over him to help him disappear into the dunes.

Kaaras is an equally silent and still mound, freshly buried, and patiently waiting for the signal to rise.

“Your thoughts?” Evelyn asks Vivienne as they lie down on the sand, heads raised just enough to see over the curvature of the dunes.

“Whatever it is, it’s been lost for centuries,” Vivienne replies, “Based on the sand and the degree of it. I couldn’t say, darling. Dwarven ruins were never my forte. I’d say ask a dwarf but none of the dwarves we know actually studied that, either.”

“I studied some stuff,” Malika says, “I mean. The Cadaash family brought what it could when we were exiled to the surface.”

“But not everything.”

“I think that maybe even the oldest families of Orzamar might not remember what this is,” Malika says. “It looks  _super_  old. And kind of - magic-y? Magic stuff? Not exactly  _dwarven_  forte, ma’am. All due respect.”

“But the  _arcane_ , my dear, is,” Vivienne replies. “Similar but not exactly the same. Anything from your dragons, Inquisitor?”

“Nothing yet,” Evelyn replies.

She reaches with her mind and all she can feel is Ellana and Mahanon’s caution, their alertness. They’re watching for patrol patterns, waiting for their chance to slip in. Ellana seems to perk up and both of their attention narrows down.

“They’re going in,” Evelyn says, and she watches as the two dragons retreat back down a sand dune and then dive into the sand, disappearing like snakes. Through her connection with the dragons she feels them burrowing, the trapped heat of the desert sun like a smothering blanket around her mind and the strange atmospheric sense they have with the vibration of their spines. “There’s something very large underneath. Whatever it is the Venatori have uncovered, it’s only the beginning.”

Ellana suddenly stops, Mahanon stopping moments later, waiting for his sister.

Ellana is confused and slightly alarmed.

 _What is it?_  Evelyn thinks at her dragons.

Evelyn feels Ellana’s trepidation, nervousness, some sort of hesitance. Danger. There must be some sort of danger.

“There’s something down there that Ellana can feel,” Evelyn says to the others, “I think it might be some sort of magical artifact. She’s got a slightly stronger sense for it than Mahanon. I think that the real thing the Venatori are after isn’t the ruins, but something that’s been hidden and buried with their history. We’ll proceed ahead with the ambush.”

Ellana and Mahanon are making their way back towards the surface.

Evelyn focuses on thinking towards them  _attack_.

Mahanon seems to send back a very pleased wave of emotion as Ellana falls behind him to let him take the lead.

Bull lets out a very low and pleased rumble that Evelyn can feel all along her body as she gets up on her forearms and turns over to slide down the sand towards the others. She hears the sound of Malika’s armor plates clanking together as she goes to climb onto the Iron Bull’s head where it’s still visible above the sand.

Herah hangs onto Kaaras’ horn and gives Evelyn a boost up.

“Drop me on the closest one,” Evelyn says.

“Sure thing,” Herah laughs.

The two large dragons slowly rise up, sand rushing off of them like a sighing waterfall as they slowly edge towards the unaware Venatori, waiting for Ellana and Evelyn to strike with the signal.

The heads of the two dragons crest out of the sand as their spines rise up and they shake sand off of their bodies.

Mahanon slides forward with Ellana following behind him as his tail excitedly flicks back and forth.

The Venatori don’t even notice until Ellana and Mahanon have raised themselves up using one of the wooden watch towers as braces.

By then it’s too late.

Mahanon’s spines and neck frills unfurl as he opens his mouth as lightning begins to build along his scales.

The Venatori spell casters are already lining up barriers and ground based spells to ground the lightning, but Ellana’s neck arches as her own spines and frills fan out and she releases a large, noxious cloud of acid gas. Mahanon releases his electricity just after her, igniting the cloud into a loud roaring of cone and mass of flame. The Iron Bull roars out an excited bellow at the sound that shakes the actual earth as he pushes out of the sand with powerful muscles and a thunderclap of a wing flap that scatters sand.

It sounds like he’s laughing as he lopes forward, not even taking the effort of taking off, but just charging forward, a delighted roaring shaking the desert.

Kaaras lets out a low groan and follows after, pushing off into the air to do a low fly around and glide to the opposite side of the site to prevent anyone from escaping or calling another Venatori camp for back up.

As they fly over Evelyn drops down and Ellana pushes forward off of the wooden watch tower and half-glides over the burning cloud. It’s second nature for Evelyn to use force magic to control her fall as she land son Ellana’s back and quickly positions herself low.

They land as Ellana turns, mouth opening to release a spray of acid this time, as Evelyn calls flame to her hands.

The Iron Bull’s claws scrape over exposed stone as he deposits Malika down. Evelyn hears her loud battle cry as she rushes into the fray before the Iron Bull’s wings flap and he shoves approaching Venatori away with a flap of his wings before setting in on them in earnest with teeth and claws.


	318. Chapter 318

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the SCP files. I should not have read those before bed.

CASE FILE REPORT ON DA-1431142 PREPARED BY SECOND CLASS RESEARCHER M. CADAASH, APPROVED BY DR. K. ADAAR

Designation: DA-1431142 “THE TWINS”

Danger Level: DELTA - STABLE

Special Containment Procedures: DA-1431142 when not activated for tests or other procedures is to be kept in contentment with its secondary unit (DA-1431142-1). DA-1431142 is to be kept in a locked clear box on pressure sensors. The containment room is to be observed via camera and other pre-installed sensors. Any staff checking in on the subject is to be accompanied by one other member at all times. Do not enter the containment field alone.

DA-1431142-1 is not to be allowed to leave the containment field at any time, unless it is through prior authorization of an Inquisition staff member ranked Level 4 and above with written clearance from relevant researchers assigned to DA-1431142’s study and containment, ranked Level 5 and above.

The containment room is an artificially lit room with no other windows, doors, or furniture aside from one (1) standard full sized mattress and one (1) blanket.

Personnel entering the containment field will be searched and have their items catalogued going in and out of the room. Unless it is for testing purposes, do not leave any items in the room with DA-1431142-1.

The containment room is to undergo a standard cycle of light and dark exposure in order to simulate natural day and night patterns, and is also to be kept at a stable seventy-seven (77) degrees Fahrenheit.

DA-1431142-1 should not be fed at any time.

Physical contact with primary subject DA-1431142 is strictly prohibited unless part of authorized testing. Do not hold or touch DA-1431142. Any personnel that comes into contact DA-1431142 will immediately be demoted and sent to the Spymaster for reassignment, psychological evaluation, and possible termination and reacclimation.

Description: DA-1431142 is a two sided, reversible cloak, or caplet. One side is made of black material that catches threads of gold in certain lights. The pattern of the threads seems to change and has not been accurately explored due to the physical limitations of being unable to hold or touch DA-1431142. The other side is white material with silver thread with the same effect as the black side.

DA-1431142-1 is a vaguely humanoid figure that has no physical characteristics. It stands at five feet five inches (5’5”) but weighs only fifty pounds (50). It has no genitals, no orifices, and no sensory organs. From tests run by Dr. Pavus, it appears to have no organs, nervous, vascular, digestive, or respiratory system. It also does not possess any bone structure. Any attempts to dissect or probe its inner workings to confirm these conjectures has not been successful to date.

How it ambulates and perceives the world around it is unknown. DA-1431142-1 does not appear to react to any external stimulus and recovers from any damage done to it within the hour. Dr. Pavus and Dr. Adaar have both run extensive testing along with Dr. de Fer on DA-1431142-1 to test the extent of its recovery abilities. It has recovered from complete disassembly and incineration within an average of two hours. It does not appear to feel any pain. Its complete recovery has not been observed, as it spontaneously appears wherever DA-1431142 is shortly after being completely destroyed. Otherwise any damaged or missing appendages seem to grow back as if some sort of amorphous liquid or clay is being molded out of its main figure. DA-1431142-1 does not appear to eat, sleep, or defecate.

However, when DA-1431142-1 comes into physical contact with DA-1431142 it will place the cape over its shoulders and transform depending on which side is facing outwards.

If the dark side of DA-1431142 is facing outwards DA-1431142-1 will transform into a middle aged elven woman, aged approximately thirty-five (35) to thirty eight (38) years with long dark hair, light skin, dark eyes, wearing the cloak (DA-1431142-2). DA-1431142-2 refers to herself as  _“_ ELLANA”.

If the light side of DA-1431142 is facing outwards, DA-1431142-1 will transform into a middle aged elven man, aged approximately thirty-five (35) to thirty eight (38) years with long pale hair, dark skin, light eyes, wearing the cloak (DA-1431142-3). DA-1431142-3 refers to himself as  _“_ MAHANON”.

If any humanoid figure that is not DA-1431142-1 comes into contact with DA-1431142 they will feel a compulsion to put the cape on. Upon doing so they will be transformed into either the DA-1431142-2 or DA-1431142-3. Upon transforming the person will not have any memory of the experience or the time that passes while DA-1431142 is worn.

DA-1431142-2 and DA-1431142-3 will appear wearing whatever their host is wearing at the time of possession.

DA-1431142-2 and DA-1431142-3 are independent of each other, though they are both aware that the other exists. They claim that the other is their younger twin sibling, and both deny that they are the younger of the two. When questioned by Dr. Adaar they both state that they are aware that they are a cloak, but they also state that they are elves. When asked if they were created as a cloak both respond that they have always been a cloak. But they also express memories of having parents and other familial relationships. They also speak of events that have occurred in their lives that have no records to be found in this world. DA-1431142 has been a subject of the Inquisition for several years but does not seem to realize this or acknowledge any disruption in the flow of time. 

DA-1431142 and DA-1431142-1 were acquired after Inquisition scouts looked into reports regarding a strange figure wandering the woods around Ostwick in the Free Marches, coming very close to the origin site of DA-343174 and DA-5485311.

Neither DA-1431142-2 or DA-1431142-3 show any awareness of events that occur when they are not “present”.

DA-1431142-2 and DA-1431142-3 show signs of some preternatural activities, the extent of which remain unclear. To date they have been recorded doing the following:

  * Accurately picking up on lies
  * Heightened reflexes
  * Extraordinary charm, possible ability of compulsion
  * Above average strength (as DA-1431142-2)
  * Above average speed (as DA-1431142-3)
  * Superior hearing, capable of hearing the sound of a page turning several rooms away (as DA-1431142-3)
  * Superior eyesight, capable of counting individual hairs from across a room (as DA-1431142-2)
  * Limited Clairvoyance (?) (as DA-1431142-2)
  * Limited Retro-cognition (?) (as DA-1431142-3)



Aside from its transformative properties, DA-1431142 shows abilities of regeneration. All damage done to the cloak is repaired almost instantaneously, with neither DA-1431142-2 or DA-1431142-3 reporting any knowledge of harm done to the cloak.

DA-1431142 will not cause any physical changes on inanimate objects or non-humanoid figures. As DA-1431142 has not shown any inclination towards harming others or taking any other actions Dr. Adaar has recommended that DA-1431142 be classified as DELTA pending further study and or changes.

Further notes: There has been special interest in attempting to test DA-1431142’s transformative abilities on DA-12048011. Dr. Adaar and Commander Rutherford have strongly protested such testing and the test has been put on hold.

DA-1431142 has been cleared for use in Inquisition Missions when overseen by authorized personnel. DA-1431142-2 appears to get along very well with other subjects and Inquisition personnel, and has a particular fondness for DA-12048011, who also appears to reciprocate such fondness. DA-12048011 should not be allowed to come into contact with DA-1431142 as he might attempt to put DA-1431142 on.

DA-1431142-3 should have limited exposure to other Inquisition staff, however, as he can be quite abrasive and generally unnerving. Use of DA-1431142-3 on missions should be limited when possible as DA-1431142-3 is quite adept at killing and causing other bodily harm and does not take direction very well, if at all. When possible deploy DA-1431142-2, the more receptive of the pair.


	319. Chapter 319

CASE FILE REPORT ON DA-12048011 PREPARED BY HEAD RESEARCHER DR. K. ADAAR, APPROVED BY COMMANDER C. PENTAGHAST

Designation: DA-12048011 “the Iron Bull”

Danger Level: BETA - BORDERLINE ALPHA

Special Containment Procedures: DA-12048011 is not to be allowed near any of the other subjects under Inquisition care and study, nor is he allowed to be permitted access to any files, records, documentation, findings, equipment, or other materials pertaining to other subjects, studies, tests, and other Inquisition research.

DA-12048011’s rooms on the main Inquisition base located [REDACTED] are to be routinely swept on a bi-weekly basis, no exceptions. Four (4) or more personnel of rank Level 5 and above must see to this task. DA-12048011 is not permitted to have external communication devices such as phones, laptops, tablets, or any other electronic devices that will allow him communication or perception of the rest of the world. Furthermore, DA-12048011 is permitted to read books, newspapers, and magazines but only if approved by the relevant authorities preceding over DA-12048011’s containment.

DA-12048011’s room may only contain the following: one (1) custom made bed anchored to the floor and sized to fit his proportions comfortably, one (1) desk and chair, and one (1) chest of drawers for his clothes. DA-12048011 is also permitted to keep any reading materials given to him in his room.

_For the purposes of this record, I would like to state that I protest to these stringent constraints on DA-12048011. He is not a prisoner and is here voluntarily. The Inquisition is not a prison and it goes against our purposes and creed. This is not what we are here for. - Dr. Adaar_

_Dr. Adaar, given the unique nature of the subject it would be prudent to restrict knowledge DA-12048011 has of current events. We do not know what he is doing with it. Limited access is fine, but until we can place him somewhere that would not put Inquisition forces at risk he must remain, figuratively, in the dark about many things.  The Inquisition handles sensitive information from all of Thedas, information that we cannot risk falling into… DA-12048011’s hands and wherever that would lead. Your protest has been noted, but the restrictions remain in place. - Secret Forces Commander Leliana_

DA-12048011’s room is to be monitored at all times, even when DA-12048011 is not inside of it. The window is to be four inches thick with no openings and the door must have a biometric lock keyed to open to the Inquisition members assigned to DA-12048011’s monitoring, as well as relevant researchers, and Inquisition personnel of a rank Level 6 and above clearance. When not in containment, DA-12048011 is to have two (2) Inquisition personnel trailing him at all times.

All Inquisition members that come into contact with DA-12048011 must not answer any of his questions, no matter how topical. Do not tell DA-12048011 of any current events or any personal details.

As of incident 089-134a, DA-12048011 has been allowed restricted use of the Inquisition’s training facilities and training weapons with approval from Commander C. Rutherford.

_I believe that DA-12048011’s keen perception and unique background, as well as cooperative nature and amiable - even enthusiastic - approach to combat is a resource the Inquisition cannot turn away. I, Commander Cullen Rutherford, will personally vouch as to the safety of his training routines with our personnel and will take full responsibility for any incidents that come to pass. I put forward a motion to allow DA-12048011, the Iron Bull, to train and spar with our personnel. - Commander C. Rutherford_

_Motion approved. Addition - demotion from subject from threat Alpha to Beta. - Commander C. Pentaghast_

_Approved. Subject of threat level demotion to be discussed after a trial period of two moths.  - Secret Forces Commander Leliana_

_Motion approved. DA-12048011’s file has been flagged and new protocol will be written and dispensed to personnel once regulations are confirmed. - Ambassador, and Chief of Staff, J. Montilyet_

Description: DA-12048011 appears to be a man of Qunari heritage, aged mid-to late forties. He is approximately seven (7) feet tall, including the size of the large “Bull” like horns that protrude from the sides of his skull. He is over three (3) tons and extremely dense, but moves as fast, if not faster, than an average man of his size.

DA-12048011 is missing his left eye as well as two (2) fingers on his left hand: missing from the second joint down are his pinky and ring finger. DA-12048011 has multiple scars.

DA-12048011’s weight and density can be attributed to his source material, as DA-12048011 was recorded breaking his way out of a mountain on the Storm Coast.

Inquisition scouts had been alerted to his emergence from the mountains by seismic readings as well as strange energy spikes in the area recorded by Dr. Pavus’ machines on an unrelated study. When Inquisition scouts were dispatched they were able to capture on video the moment of his emergence. Prior to DA-12048011’s appearance, there have been a total of seven other subjects emerging in similar manner from stone across Thedas, but DA-12048011’s is the first to be recorded, and is also the second of his kind to have been brought into Inquisition custody willingly and whole.

DA-12048011 is currently the only member of his kind in Inquisition care, as the previous subject DA-2374 escaped containment and has been missing for the past five (5) years.

Upon emerging from the mountainside DA-12048011 expressed detailed and very thorough knowledge of current events, world history, science, philosophy, mathematics, languages, and more esoteric topics, as well as deeply intimate and private information that he should not have had access too.

DA-12048011 has proved to be proficient in the following languages:

  * Ancient Elven
  * High/Ancient Dwarven
  * Nevarran
  * Antivan
  * Rivain



DA-12048011 has proved to be completely fluent in the following languages:

  * Qunlat
  * Trade
  * Tevene
  * Orlesian
  * Modern Dwarven



DA-12048011 attributes most of this knowledge to the stone he came from as well as a deeper force. DA-12048011 has made remarks about this force which he states others should already know of. DA-12048011 has said of the people he has met that Dr. Adaar and First Seargent Adaar should already know what he means.

DA-12048011 has stated that he knows several things about the Inquisition from DA-2347’s time in Inquisition care. When asked if the two share some sort of mental connection DA-12048011 stated that “it’s deeper than that, I just know”.

It is speculated that based on DA-12048011 and DA-2347’s broad range of knowledge and expertise that they are connected to some sort of greater consciousness that allows them to pull information and knowledge freely. It is also speculated that this knowledge base grows the more the individuals see and experience. Both DA-12048011 and DA-2347  have referenced this greater entity in vague terms before and have also hinted at this entity’s goals of “assimilation” and “correction”. For this reason DA-12048011 is to have limited access to all knowledge and current news. If this entity were to have access to the Inquisition’s research and knowledge of our other subjects the greater whole of Thedas could be put at great risk.

Aside from the strange greater consciousness DA-12048011 has, he has also shown a keen and sharp intellect. DA-12048011 is a master of perception and manipulation. DA-12048011 has tricked several Inquisition members before into revealing classified and redacted data, and has managed to get into locked and secured containment fields for other Inquisition subjects.

DA-12048011 is allowed limited exposure to some of the free roaming Inquisition subjects, and DA-12048011 has made certain connections with them and other Inquisition personnel. These interactions are to be closely monitored. Any signs of danger must be addressed with immediate reassignment and possible reacclimatization procedures.

DA-12048011’s physical abilities should not be overlooked. He is a highly capable combatant who excels in grappling and close fighting, as well as quick thinking and fast reactions to changing situations. DA-12048011 is capable of feeling pain, but has an extremely high pain threshold and seems to grow stronger off of injuries done to his person. It should be noted that DA-12048011 does not heal or show injury in the same way other humanoids do. DA-12048011’s skin seems to crack and shatter like stone. DA-12048011’s method of repair is for his blood to pool into the cracks and fuse him back together. This method of healing causes scars and fissures across his body.

Experiments done on DA-12048011 have shown that other materials can be grafted onto him to close fissures and other cracks, but not to replace parts like his lost fingers.

DA-12048011’s threat level has been demoted to BETA but it is an unstable rank.

Further notes: DA-12048011 and DA-1431142-2 seem to get along very well, but it should be warned that DA-12048011 should not be allowed physical contact with DA-1431142 as he has attempted to wear DA-1431142 before. As Inquisition testing has not yet determined what happens to the wearer when DA-1431142 is worn, and it is known that DA-1431142-2 and -3 show signs of persistent life beyond their time being worn, it is unsafe and unwise for the two subjects to mix.


	320. Chapter 320

“What is he,” Ellana demands, lines of blood slit up her arms as she stands in the silence of the manicured forests around Halamshiral. “ _What the fuck is he_.”

The Wolf appears, and if he didn’t appear Ellana would have died for nothing but she would also have died furious and vengeful and she would  _hunt her god down_. The Wolf appears, black with his many eyes, all of the roaming all over to see things that she cannot, and several of them focused on her face and her slit open arms and she feels the power of his divinity wash over her as the wounds seal themselves closed.

The evidence of her sacrifice remains on her skin, fresh.

 _Don’t,_  the Wolf commands,  _you have spent so much time and effort becoming something, becoming everything, do not throw it away for someone who has become nothing._

“No riddles, no games, I want the straight truth of it,” Ellana says, fury pouring out of her even though blood has stopped, “One of the closest friends I have ever had is at deaths door because someone - someone  _claiming_  to be you, someone who  _claims_  to have been aligned with you sometime in the ancient and I do mean  _ancient_  past - put her there and now seeks - “

Ellana fumbles for a word to encapsulate the gravity, the enormity, the huge and impossibly vast violation of life and time that this  _Solas_  wants to rain down upon the world.

 _Genocide,_  the Wolf finishes,  _he seeks genocide for misguided penance and absolution._

“Who  _is he_.”

The Wolf slides around her, at once incomprehensibly large and vast like trying to take in the entire horizon without moving, and also small enough to curl around her like a cat.

_He once was as you are now. A follower of the Wolf. But in a time when elves were free and golden, when I had not yet made the Veil, and we gods walked and sang and played and dined and loved among you. And in this time, when we were most powerful, we were still worshipped as we are today. But grander. Larger. More intricate. We had priests. We had priestesses. We had acolytes. We had temples and palaces in our names. We had rituals and feast days and entire weeks dedicated to our names. And then we had our avatars._

One of the Wolf’s large eyes fixes on her and it is like looking into a distorted mirror - she sees her own reflection, and somehow, beyond that, another image her mind cannot focus on.

_We would choose from a generation one who we would give great gifts and authority. For we are gods. Do you think we care to listen to the everyday problems and squabbles of you mortals? What do I care of the man who has stolen another woman’s lover? Why should I care about your crops and your cattle and your endless, endless annoyances? So we have our avatars, who we entrust to handle the things most mundane._

“And you chose  _that - that -_ “ Ellana finds herself, momentarily, at a loss for words before she sputters out all the curses she’s learned in Orlesian, Dwarven, Dalish, and Qunlat.

The Wolf growls and the sound of it knocks the air out of her lungs and collapses her where she stands.

The Wolf snarls into her face,  _Watch yourself. He was once much loved. As you. He was once a good and noble man, as you. He was once mine, as you._

“Then what happened to him?” Ellana snaps.

 _I left,_  The Wolf replies,  _we all left. We grew bored and the the time of gods was brought to a close. To each of our chosen avatars of the time we left instructions. But they did not listen -  most did not listen. And so the decline of the elves began as they scrambled for power and glory and shadows of what they never had. Solas seems to think that he can return to the past, rekindle what was never really there. He feels that he is to blame for not being able to better guide the transition. It is not his fault. It is not anyone’s fault. Even if it was, there is nothing to gain in what he does now._

“And what is he doing now aside from trying to kill all life as we know it?” Ellana asks.

The Wolf tilts his head, ears perked as his dozens of eyes roam and roam and roam.

_He seeks to sunder the Veil. He seeks the powers that have already passed from this world. He looks for a glory that was not his to lay claim to. He seeks to bring to this world a dream that can no longer exist._

“And you do not seek this?”

_Why would I?_

“Temples and palaces in your name?”

_What do I care of temples and palaces? I am the Wolf. The things I care about are vastly different from what you mortals pay ridiculous amounts of attention to. I exist with or without you. All the world could die and I would still exist._

“And so you  _don’t_  care about what he does?”

_Again, the things I care about are different from what you mortals judge. I do not care about temples or palaces, I care not for masses of devotees or acolytes. I detest that he thinks that he can claim the power of gods. I detest that he believes that he can create glory, glory which me and my kin deigned to bring to this world. And most of all I loathe that he believes that the world he dreams of is better than the world created by our chosen absence. This world is infinitely more interesting without us among you than with us. My kin and I agree in this. Return to Evelyn Trevelyan’s side. I send you with a boon, for I have use for the both of you yet. She will not die today. My kin and I also agree on this. Now go._


	321. Chapter 321

“So. Mahanon wants a stable for a pony, Rocky wants easy access to a forest for rock samples and other scientific endeavors, Skinner wants a hot tub, Stitches wants a secret room or stairway, Grim wants a breakfast nook, Krem for whatever ungodly reason wants  _shag carpeting_ , and Dalish wants french doors  _on everything_.” Ellana pauses and then smirks, muttering, “Well that shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

“All jokes aside, we’re going to need more than two bathrooms,” Bull replies, resting his chin on his palm as he looks over Ellana’s shoulder, “We’ve got about three million kids; most of them are either in or about to be in that precious stage of life where the bathroom mirror is their best friend as they brood about  _stuff_.”

“One half and two full is fine,” Ellana replies.

“I’m fully aware of the fact that we’re probably going to be surrendering the sanctuary of our own adult person bathroom and the path between our bedroom door and that bathroom door is going to just put a big hole in our privacy suite where we do amazing things like bump junk and shit,” Bull grins when Ellana kicks him under the table, “Or alternately, pass out while we complain about our million teenagers all entering puberty at once. But even then two and a half is gonna be pushing it. At least two half bathrooms to become one full.”

Ellana's fingers hesitate over the buttons for how many bathrooms they’re looking for on the house hunting website.

“Consider Dalish,” Bull says, leaning against her, nudging her head with his chin, “Just. Listen. Babe.  _Dalish_. Our girl. Our pretty blonde clever girl who’s growing up into a pretty blonde clever young lady before our very tired eyes.”

“What about her?”

“You know she’s going to be in that bathroom for at least half a hour every morning doing whatever it takes to make her feel good and ready for the hell that’s high school and neither of us is going to try very hard to reign that in,” Bull says. “So that’s one bathroom down. Meanwhile we have  _how_  many other kids all trying to get ready for school at once?”

“Dalish would share.”

“Alright, but what about Mahanon?”

“What about him?”

“Babe, you know it. I know it. Mahanon knows it. Puberty is going to hit and he’s going to turn into the most brooding kid this side of Tevinter. He and Dalish might come to blows over that bathroom mirror. And you know that they’ll both pick  _the one superior bathroom_  with the good lighting to fight over. They aren’t going to play nice.”

Ellana’s finger drifts towards  _three bathrooms_  and Bull lays the finishing blow.

“Also Krem’s already half-way obsessed with his own hair now, and his voice hasn’t even started to crack.”

“I miss my counter space already,” Ellana says and switches from two and a half to three bathrooms. They both grimace as they watch prices change. “Oh, our poor finances.”

“The sacrifices we make for our kids teenage years,” Bull sighs, “Alright. Now about garage space for the entire showroom of cars we’re going to be getting.”

“Can we skip this part and retire to a senior condo? Where’s the option on this website for that?”

-

He’s got an entire fleet of kids running around the house and back yard eating tomatoes, cucumbers, and snap peas raw like little monsters and he’s also got about five crates worth of produce sitting on his front porch, and his wife is in the middle of trying to negotiate with her crazy aunt on the phone about how much they do not want or need  _how many bottles of milk and dozens of eggs_.

The downside of eccentric, rich in-laws who own entire acres of farmland and use it to its fullest extent with a zealous fervor.

Bull hears little feet and holds his hand out at about hip-height and just snags the first thing his fingers brush against. At this point he doesn’t even know who he grabs when he does this, it’s like randomly aiming your hand into a river and pulling out a fish. Sometimes you get something, sometimes you get a rock.

“Are any of you actually going to help me and your mom bring this stuff inside and put it away?” He asks, giving Grim a very stern look. Grim shrugs and signs a vague affirmative before shoving a handful of beansprouts into his face.

“Those aren’t even - “ Bull starts, stops, doesn’t bother continuing, just puts the kid down and watches him run off again.

Are they playing tag? Keep away? Trying to tackle each other like wild animals and wrestle each other into submission to figuring out some sort of hierarchy in order to get dibs on the game console in the living room?

Bull has no idea.

“Listen,  _listen,_  Aunt Sylaise, I - can you put Uncle June on the line? I’m not -  _No._  Why is she even  _over_? I thought you two were fighting. Well good on you, I’m still mad at her. No, I don’t want to talk it out with you. Especially not if she’s there. Just — “

Bull hears Ellana’s voice getting louder and fainter as she paces circles around the living room. Bull sighs and slowly bends down to pick up some of the boxes of vegetables from inside one of the crates.

As Bull walks into the house towards the kitchen Ellana stops talking on the phone, putting it against her chest as she yells out, “You kids are supposed to be helping your  _dad_. If I watch your dad lift  _one more box_  by himself I’m going to - “

It’s like a stampede of feet.

Ellana winks at him and goes back to talking on the phone with Sylaise.

“ —  _listen_ , half the people in this house are lactose intolerant. We just can’t have that much milk. Seriously. I appreciate it, and no one’s saying you can’t send anything, but this is  _just too much.”_

 _“_ I used to be a voice of authority in this house,” Bull says as he puts the produce on the kitchen table and takes a seat, watching a stream of kids and preteens and teenagers coming in and out with armfuls of produce that they aren’t eating.

“Then we bought a new house,” Stitches points out.

“And we got a new mom,” Dalish tacks on.

“Things change,” Rocky says, handing Bull a cucumber. “Sorry, Dad.”

“At least wash these before you eat them,” Bull says, “Come on, lets at least pretend to be civilized.”


	322. Chapter 322

"Hey," Ellana hears through the heavy sword, slightly muffled from its scabbard on her back, “Have you considered, I don’t know, maybe cutting him in half? Quarters? Thirds?”

Ellana reaches around and runs her fingers over the scabbard in a soothing motion and turns to Dorian, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“I’m not exactly in charge of that,” Dorian replies, eyes focused on the arguing pair in front of them. Maxwell and Evelyn are excellent debaters with lungs that would make any diver envious, but Ellana doesn’t think they’re going to win this argument anytime soon, and definitely not without some bloodshed. “Angsty?”

“Bull’s getting annoyed,” Ellana says, “I don’t think he’s going to stay in the scabbard if people keep throwing out slurs at us.”

“What? So they can run screaming for pitchforks and torches to jab at him instead of words?”

“Bull’s always been of the opinion that words are far more dangerous than pitchforks and torches,” Ellana says, turning over her shoulder to shush the Iron Bull as she feels the scabbard growing warming, “You behave.”

The sword rattles in the sheath before settling. The Iron Bull grumbles, “We don’t need their money. I bet they’d cheat us and shit. Probably accuse us of murder or possession and then hire a nice, palatable, boring, inept band to try and take us out and then we’d  _really_  be fucked because we’d wipe the fucking floor with them.”

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Dorian muses, “It’s happened before.”

“That’s what happens when you hire an entire band of humans that only has the one skill of waving around a sharp pointy stick,” Ellana says, “Do you think they’ll notice if I sneak out of here and go back to the others?”

“Considering that half of the epithets they’ve been throwing at are for you? Yes. I think they would most certainly notice if their target for slurs and derogatory terms attempted to sneak away,” Dorian replies.

Ellana reaches back and puts her hand on the Iron Bull’s hilt in an attempt to get him to stay put.

Maxwell and Evelyn’s argument with their… _employer_  grows much louder as the man enters into hysterics, pointing at Ellana and going very red in the face. A truly unhealthy red.

“All that blood wasted on a brain that’s the size of a walnut,” Bull says and Ellana sighs as the sword pushes itself out of the sheathe and the Iron Bull materializes mere moments later. His hand is warm around hers as he pulls the sword out and makes a show of looking very big, very menacing, and very, very otherworldly in the not so pleasant kind of way. She doesn’t have to look to know exactly which of his smiles he’s using. “Are we hired or not? Getting bored over here. Daylight’s wasting. If there’s no money I vote we move on.”

Evelyn puts a face over her hand and Maxwell sighs, but they seem relieved to be rescued from having to attempt negotiations.

Bull clasps Ellana on the shoulder and turns her around.

Dorian also sighs but stays behind for the other two as Ellana and the Iron Bull leave the mayor’s office and make their way back to the edge of the town where the rest of their band of adventurers are waiting.

Ellana walks as close to Bull’s side as she can, just to feel the brush of her pelt that’s folded and tied around Bull’s waist brush against her arm. The tingle of familiar magic relaxes her shoulders.

“You want it?”

“No,” Ellana says, “I imagine the townsfolk are plenty frightened enough, seeing a demon walking about. I imagine it would be much worse if they saw a giant bear.”

“You could be a  _not_  giant bear.”

“I could,” Ellana concedes, “But I don’t particularly feel like anything other than a giant bear. And you like me best as a giant bear.”

“I like you best as you,” the Iron Bull says, “Seeing you big, angry, and strong enough to knock  _my_  head off is a bonus.”

-

“I don’t mean to pry,” Maxwell starts. Ellana gives him a very fond look as she cleans the Iron Bull’s blade.

“But you’re going to, because that’s what humans do, and that’s what people do in general when they say the words  _I don’t mean to pry_  when talking to a shape-shifter who’s holding a demon’s blade. Ask, Maxwell.”

“Well, since you told me too, and I’m very good at following orders,” Maxwell teases, dropping down next to her, “How does one come to be in possession of a demon’s soul-sword without forming a contract for your very soul?”

“Maxwell, have you ever fought a giant bear?” Ellana asks.

“No.”

“Would you ever  _want_  to fight a giant angry bear?”

“In general I don’t really want to ever fight anything, honestly.” Ellana gives him a very patient look. “No, I would never want to fight a giant bear, let alone an angry one.”

“Then I imagine that putting something in the possession of a giant bear is a very safe way of making sure it stays guarded,” Ellana says. “He knows I’ll keep it safe, and he also knows that I don’t really need its power because I have plenty enough of it on my own. And if I ever  _did_  need that sort of power I would most certainly ask for it.”

“That’s a lot of trust to put into someone,” Maxwell says.

“And now are you asking me how I earned it?”

“Getting a story out of you normally isn’t this hard, Ellana.”

Ellana laughs and lets go of the blade. It seems to rattle in her lap before levitating up a few inches, and quickly zipping across camp towards the forest where the Iron Bull had gone off earlier to help Cole look for some firewood.

“I like to tease you, Maxwell,” Ellana replies, “You make it so incredibly easy. He trusts me because I trusted him first. You’ve heard stories of shape shifters who’ve had their pelts stolen - animal husbands and wives and such.”

“Don’t tell me  _you_  were one.”

“Oh no, not me,” Ellana says, “My brother had his stolen on one of the rare occasions he had taken it off. He needed his hands to get a kill that had fallen and gotten stuck underneath some bramble and he didn’t have the dexterity or strength needed in any of his forms, so he quickly changed to get it. And in that time his pelt was stolen and he was quite furious. I agreed to help him, but I didn’t want my own pelt at risk so I gave it to the Iron Bull.”

“And how did you know to trust  _him_  with it?” Ellana smiles. “Oh, now that’s just mean of you. You tease.”


	323. Chapter 323

“What are you getting Dad for his birthday?” Krem asks, handing Dalish half of his apple as they assemble around the park bench, waiting for Stitches and Rocky to come back from the convenience store with their drinks and requests for snacks.

“I don’t know, I can’t think of anything,” Dalish says, frowning at the apple before biting into it, “Any ideas?”

“What do Dads like?” Mahanon asks, handing Grim the baseball so he can dig around in his backpack for the water bottles they had brought from home. “What’s Dad stuff?”

“TV says cars,” Skinner says, “But our Dad isn’t like TV Dads, so I don’t know if TV rules still apply.”

“Well, our Dad does like cars,” Krem says, picking the apple seeds out of his half and flicking them at Skinner. Skinner bats them away and reaches over to pinch him. Krem goes around to the other side of the bench and the two briefly start running circles around the other three kids.

“What are you doing?” Stitches calls out.

“Do you have the blue flavor?” Mahanon asks.

“Blue isn’t a flavor, but yes, we got it,” Rocky replies, handing Mahanon a bottle of bright blue sports drink. “Seriously, what are you guys doing?”

“What should we get Dad for his birthday?” Dalish asks.

“I was thinking that if we each pooled our allowance together we could get him something really cool,” Stitches says, “Rocky and I were looking at this model boat that you have to assemble yourself and Dad likes puzzles, so that could be fun.”

“But Dad doesn’t like boats,” Krem pauses as Grim starts signing, “You’re right, he doesn’t  _not_ like boats either. But why would we get Dad a boat?”

“It’s a boat that looks like a dragon,” Rocky says, “Dad likes dragons.”

“But it’s a  _boat_ ,” Krem looks to Dalish and Skinner for help, “Boats aren’t as cool.”

“Does it do anything?” Dalish asks.

“It’s a puzzle shaped like a boat.”

“Boring.”

“What else can we get?”

Mahanon bites his lip and Krem puts an arm around his shoulder, jostling him into spilling a little of his bright blue drink onto the ground.

“You’re pitching in too,” Krem says.

“Don’t make him if he doesn’t want to,” Stitches admonishes.

“I want to,” Mahanon says, “But - is that okay?”

“He’s your Dad too,” Rocky ruffles Mahanons hair.

Mahanon smiles a little.

“But we have to figure out  _what_  to get him with all of our important people money,” Dalish says. “It doesn’t matter how much of it we have if we don’t know what to get with it. What’s Mom getting him?”

“What if  _she’s_  getting him a puzzle boat?”

“Mom wouldn’t get Dad a puzzle boat.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t know what?”

All of the kids yelp, and Mom laughs as she follows the walking trail up to the bench they had gathered around.

“What are all of you doing clustered around like that? Plotting?” Mom teases and then frowns, “Is that  _soda?”_

 _“_ Yeah, you want some?”

“Boy howdy, do I ever,” Mom says, holding out her hand, “Just because it makes your Dad’s stomach turn into a gas monster doesn’t mean the rest of us should be deprived of the bubbly. Hand some over here please and thanks. Now what is it you don’t know?”

“Mom, what are you getting Dad for his birthday?”

Mom pops the tab on her soda can, takes a sip, shudders, and immediately passes it onto Grim.

“I’m taking your dad out to do gross adult person stuff like kiss and hold hands and that thing where a person yawns and puts their arm around their date’s shoulders in a movie theater,” Mom replies, “And I’ll look into his eye and gush about how handsome he is and amazing and wonderful and stuff.”

“Ew, gross, Mom and Dad are going to be  _cute together_ , yuck.”

“No fair, I want to go on a date with Mom and Dad, too,” Dalish frowns.

Mom laughs, “I’m having a barbecue at the house the Saturday after your Dad’s birthday with all of his friends. If you’re having trouble thinking of something, maybe you can help me make some food and maybe make a card or something like that? I could use some help making a cake or two…”

-

“And to think,” Dad muses as he holds the door open for an entire train of children to come through, “You used to fret over having  _one_  child.”

“Don’t be an old fart,” Ellana says, “I know you’re secretly happy to have so many grandkids to knit for. Now you can start breaking out the  _variety_.”

“It’s no secret at all, can you see me making mental notes and measurements?” Dad asks, “And where’s the father of all of these children today?”

“You’re asking that because you want to grill him like a sandwich,” Ellana says, “I’m on to you, Dad.”

“I’ve met him before.”

“And you’ll meet him again and again, and you’re going to keep the interrogations spread out so he’ll always be on his toes. One minute you’ll be talking about the weather and the school district’s latest projects the next you’ll be trying to dive down his throat to get his social security number and a run down on any records he might have,” Ellana pulls a hair tie off of her wrist as she pulls her hair back. “Are we good with spaghetti for lunch?”

Dad hums, closing the door behind her, “I have a conference call I have to attend to in about half an hour. It shouldn’t take long. I might need to call you in for your opinion.”

“Who’s the call with?”

“Abelas and Briala,” Dad replies, “Briala is in need of some guidance regarding a particularly tough bill she’s attempting to pass through committee. We’re checking previous precedent and such as well as running a basic cost analysis. A little out of our field, but it was either this or consult with Elgar’nan.”

“Gross.”

“That’s your Uncle you’re talking about.”

“Sorry,  _double gross_.”


	324. Chapter 324

“Hold this,” Ellana holds out her hands and the Iron Bull places his soul-sword onto them and steps back.

Ellana waits for a moment and then says, “And now what?”

“Just hold it,” Bull says, “Let me get used to how it feels when you’re holding it, just so I don’t accidentally have you incinerated if you draw the thing when I’m not looking right at you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Ellana starts to protest but Bull shakes his head, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.

“Nah. I know you by now,” Bull says, “You would only ever draw my sword if you were really desperate. You like your claws too much and you’d never try and pull some shit on me. If you’re ever trying to use my powers it’s because you’re deep into it and I don’t want to make a bad situation worse by laying a curse on you just because I wasn’t expecting something.”

Ellana frowns, “You know I wouldn’t ever try and bind you with this.”

“I know,” Bull says, “Swing it around a little. I just need to get used to how it feels when you’re holding it and moving it around.”

It feels like the weight of the heavy blade is changing, the balance feels strange. Ellana doesn’t have much experience with melee weapons - or weapons that aren’t her own fists and teeth, really - but she knows this one feels strange in her hands.

“Yeah, like that,” Bull says, coming up to her and gently adjusting her grip on the sword, “Alright. Yeah. Good. Maybe move your hand down - yeah, like that. Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

As he’s instructing her on how to move and swing she can feel the sword growing lighter. Faster. Keener.

By the time the Iron Bull is satisfied it feels like she isn’t holding anything more than a rather cumbersome stick.

“Good,” he says, as she hands it back to him, “If you’re ever into some shit and you can’t change, or maybe changing won’t be such a good idea, now you’ve got this.”

“It feels unfair of me,” Ellana says, tugging at the edge of her pelt, rubbing the familiar thing between her fingers, “It’s not like I can teach you how to use my skins.”

Bull cups her cheek and brushes his thumb under her eye, his skin hot and rough with callouses and scars and hardened skin, “Trust me on this one. This makes me feel a whole lot better.”

-

Bull can smell the forest on the woman from almost an entire street away and he isn’t even actively trying.

Now that she’s standing right in front of him, she makes his edges sharp just with the smell of her: blood and pine, dirt and fresh mud, crushed grass and leaves, cracked branches, rotting logs, the smell that all animals have that screams of wild places and untamed horizons.

She looks him up and down, eyes glancing at the sword on his back before settling on his face.

“I need a sword.” Her voice is surprisingly deep for someone of such stature, and rough.

“I’ve got one, but it goes where I go,” He replies, “What’s the job?”

“Normally sell swords ask what the payment is first.”

“I’m not a normal sell sword.”

“I’ve gathered,” The woman replies dryly, “Your job would be to guard something very valuable for about a fortnight.”

“Anyone actively going after it?”

“None that I know of.”

“Is it alive?”

“In a manner of speaking,” The woman answers, “But you would not need to worry about feeding it or other such things. Just keep it safe, keep it hidden, and most importantly, return it to me.”

Bull can’t believe what his brain is telling him.

He gestures for her to follow him.

This is not a conversation meant for the middle of the street.

She follows and once he’s lead her through narrow side streets to a much quieter and less public area he turns around and asks, “Is this job, by any chance, guarding your skins from being stolen?”

“Yes,” She answers.

“Why would you leave those behind?”

Her dark eyes cut into him like knives.

“My brother’s skins were stolen, he rallies our kin to assist him in beating the arrogance out of the person holding his skins hostage,” She says, “I would not risk having my own skin lost for the sake of reclaiming my brother’s, as much as I love him. Annoying enough to have to get  _one_  set back, let alone two or more.”

“You could hire me to get that skin back for you instead,” Bull points out.

The woman laughs, “And spoil me and mine of the fun? I think not. It’s been a while since we’ve called a hunt on some sticky fingered interloper to our woods. No thank you. Will you take the job?”

“If I said no, what would stop me from following you and taking the skin?” Bull asks. “I could just take yours now, or follow you and take your brother’s later. Something like that.”

“Well,” The woman’s eyebrows raise, “If you said no and attempted such a deception I’d come after  _you_ next. And there’s also  _your_  honor, sir sword,” The woman replies, smiling, “You aren’t the sort to do that kind of thing. I could smell it on you a mile away. Decency has a very particular smell that’s so easily picked up in these crowded cities. Like roses in a sewer, I’d imagine. Will you take the job?”

Bull laughs, shaking his head. He was getting bored of the same old boring jobs anyway.

“I think we both know I’m going to.”

“Without even discussing the pay?”

Bull hums, “Give me the full story and the story of what happens during this fortnight and I’ll consider it paid.”

“A story for a fortnight to have my pelt guarded by a cursed sword?” The woman tilts her head, “I’d be a fool not to accept that deal. Ellana Lavellan.”

She holds out her hand and Bull grasps it, “The Iron Bull. Now, tell me about this idiot who thought he could blackmail a shifter.”


	325. Chapter 325

"So how did you guys form a DND party?” Malika asks as she helps Lavellan set out snacks and arrange the living room to accommodate the extra amount of players they’ll be hosting tonight.

Varric and his friends were willing to join for one round as long as it was confined to one sitting; Isabella is leaving in two days for an extended trip abroad so she’s not in a place to be starting anything new, Fenris’ work schedule has been reshuffled and he starts his new shifts next week and the times he’s on are during their normal campaign time, and the Hawke siblings are all over the place always.

This very special Saturday just happens to be the one day where all the schedules, fates, stars, and omens align.

(Malika was told that she just had to be there, even if she wasn’t sure about playing with the rest of them.

“You should go,” Mahanon had said as he helped her arrange photos on her project. “No, this should go here. These pictures show more cohesion and transition better into the next set like this. Here. Yes. Good.”

“Okay. I think I’m starting to get what you’re saying. So if I put these here - oh, you’re right. These look much better. Wow. So this is what you do for work? Oh - on Saturday, are you going to play? I’ve never seen you play before.”

“Me? No, tabletop isn’t something I have the patience for. But I’ll watch. The games where they have a full house draw an audience. Even Pentaghast can’t resist coming. Even if she does spend several minutes being awkwardly stand offish at first. Varric and his friends are…an experience,” Mahanon said slowly. “Imagine if you cloned Maxwell three times and gave each of them Dorian’s very particular.  _Pizzaz_.”

“I’m telling Dorian you said  _pizzaz_.”)

“Well,” Lavellan says smiling beatifically at the Iron Bull as he sets moves furniture, “When Bull and I started hanging out with each other outside of work - before we became a Thing, capital  _T_  implied, and way before we got hitched - we didn’t really know what to talk about so I asked Bull about his hobbies because at the time I didn’t really know him outside of super smart really intimidating shredded hunk of beef with a checkered past. Like  _he_  knew I liked hiking and being outside and gardening and stuff but all I knew was that he hit the gym before work on Wednesday mornings and also somehow managed to get in full work out three other times a  week. Crazy.”

Bull murmurs something as he shoves a chair back against their book case.

Lavellan giggles.

“And he asked me if I liked  _games_ ,” Lavellan says, practically singing the word.

Bull turns around, straightening up and giving Lavellan a flat look, “I asked her if she had ever heard of DND and she said  _no_.”

“I couldn’t resist, oh my  _god_ ,” Lavellan squeezes her face in her hands as she closes her eyes, “Malika, Malika, Malika. I just couldn’t resist. He asked me -  _me!_  - if I had  _heard of_   _Dungeons and Dragons_. And like - the idea of this big swole shredded guy asking  _me_  if I heard of Dungeons of Dragons. How could I resist? I said  _no_. Of course I said no. If I could rewind time I’d still say no. And he just - he started to explain it to me and it was  _so cute_  and you could tell he was just so into it and I committed to the most in depth con you’ll ever see ever, one that I’ve not topped since.”

“She played me  _for two years_.”

“I had him teaching me basic RP skills from the ground up for  _two years_ ,” Lavellan says. “I don’t know how I lasted that long, but Malika. Malika. It was so sweet of him. He’s such a good teacher and how could I deprive myself of that? And after a while it became a  _thing_. It was a way to hang out he just got so into it and I think that’s about twenty percent of why I decided I wanted to be a Thing with him - capital T  _aspiring_.”

Malika turns to Bull, “You were fooled by  _her_? You fooled  _him_? Him? Our DM? The Iron Bull? Mister literal all rounder? Jack of all trades, master of most trades, complete boss at select trades? That guy? Mister maxed out stats in real life?  _You fooled him_?”

Lavellan’s smile is almost sinister.

“How did you find out?” Malika asks as Lavellan sighs wistfully to herself, practically floating on air as she reminisces, all the way back to the kitchen to get the snack foods ready.

“I think she got bored,” Bull says, “Because one night while I was over at her place for drinks - we were a Thing, capital T decided, defined, and assured, at the time - and I was going to stay over after we finished a B movie marathon. And she was getting changed because she dropped this huge bowl of salsa on her leg when I revealed to her the truth that  _It Came from Down Under_  isn’t about Orlais - “

“ _Orlais is as south as you get_ ,” Lavellan yells from the kitchen, “Past that it’s the Kocari wilds. What the hell would come out of the Kocari wilds to fuck shit up? Who’d  _want to leave_  the Kocari wilds?”

“ - and she asked me to google it on her phone,” Bull continues. “Guess what was open on her phone at the same time?”

“What?”

“A doc containing the stats of a  _level twenty evocation wizard,”_  Bull grinds his knuckles to his forehead, “She’d been talking to one of her friends about some kind of stats - wizard versus bard or something - and she was double checking against one of her old campaign characters so she’d had it up.”

“Ouch,” Malika pats Bull’s arm in sympathy. “So how’d that feel big guy?”

“Honestly kid, to this very day I don’t know.”

-


	326. Chapter 326

"I am Ellana Lavellan, daughter of the Dread Wolf - the last of them,” She says, tearing through surging bodies and the clattering of metal and the shattering of spells, “I am the last of my once innumerable brothers and sisters, I am the only of my thousands of cousins, and I will not be denied.”

It is not mortality that she has gained - when this body of blood and bone ceases to move she will not be gone. She will return to that which made her. She will return to the Wolf’s side, even if no one can see her or touch her or hear her. Even if her own Father cannot see, touch, hear, or name her, she will be there.

She will return to the dreams he made her and the rest of her siblings from so many thousands of tears ago, she will be absorbed back into the shadows of the night and the lingering restlessness of the day.

Ellana will not die. She is not something capable of something so finite and precious. She is the thing of Dreams woven with shadow and plucked off like a feather or a hair from the rest. It will simply be a returning.

But she is not ready for any sort of return. Not when she’s just got here.

“I have clawed my way through  _dimensions_ ,” Ellana calls out, and drawing up what little divinity she’s able to manage in this plane, in this form, she pushes through the dying and the not yet dead. Ellana shoves aside bodies of fighters and demons and other creatures of adrenaline and fear and hatred and determination. “I fought against barriers and walls the likes of which you can never comprehend.”

Ellana’s eyes turn skyward as she raises her hand up and calls down lightning upon the several armor clad men and women and creatures who’ve clashed upon this castle’s walls.

“I come from the realm of gods and goddesses,” Ellana yells out, not for anyone around her but for those who drive this war, those who watch on from elsewhere, from beyond the realm of her Father and his siblings, from beyond them to the others. The other gods and the other powers and the other grand masters and designers of this single, one plot called Thedas.

How unfair of them, all of them, with their infinite powers to fight and squabble over just this singular one.

Ellana’s fist closes as she surges forward, lightning and winter storms towards her targets.

“I have seen you and the things you plot for these people,” Ellana says, “I have seen the torment and destruction and the drawn out death you want and it is not yours to have. I am Ellana, niece of the gatekeeper, niece of the judge, niece of the executioner. And I deny you!”

Ellana touches her hand against the back of a human man with short brown hair that sticks to the nape of his neck with sweat and she shouts, pushing power into him - renewed strength and energy as she wraps his mortal body in a shield of her making - “Maxwell Trevelyan, I bless you!”

She hears him gasp, body lightening with renewed vigor as she continues onwards.

Her fingertips brush white hair and the woman’s body tenses like a bowstring then surges forward with focused purpose - “Herah Adaar, I bless you!”

Ellana can feel the stirring of powers around her, anger at being interrupted in their play.

Out of the corner of her eye she notices a body falling, failing and she lunges forward to catch her, stopping the armored woman before she crashes to the ground and whispers into her ear, “Cassandra Pentaghast, I bless you.”

She pushes her hand against a woman’s arm and she catches sight of her brown eyes, wide with panic and confusion and anxiety. Ellana focuses on hope and drive and the warmth of the sun that will shine on this castle again - “Evelyn Trevelyan, I bless you.”

Ellana pushes through the crowd of the Inquisition, finding as many of the mortals Mythal pointed out to her before she came to this plain and giving them as much of her power as she could spare.

They are not believers in her pantheon. It doesn’t matter. Ellana is no god and her power does not come from anyone’s belief but her own.

Ellana is not here to save the people who believe in her Father and his siblings. She is here to save  _all of them_. Or at least - buy them some more time.

“The Iron Bull,” Ellana breathes out -  _at last_  - falling onto his back and shoulders, mouth against the sweat-slick bowed and not-yet-broken bend of his neck, “I bless you. Fight. Skyhold does not fall today. It does not fall tomorrow. From this keep the Inquisition will spread forth and conquer and free and rise and build. Thedas succumbs to no shadow, to no ruin. The age of heroes has not yet faded. This is the prophecy I seek, this is the future I put your fates towards with all my heart.”

Ellana turns to the sky. Ellana turns to the sky and she imagines the Wolf’s disappointment and she curses him.

She fought through his barriers and his orders and his commands. She fought through the burning and searing of Elgar’nan’s fury and the cold, raw and hollow echo of Dirthamen and Falon’din’s rebuttals. Ellana has fought through the will of the gods to come here with nothing but Mythal’s assurance that she is not wrong and nothing else.

“I stand here between you -  _all of_ you - and the Inquisition,” Ellana declares, calling out to every single eye on this single realm, “They are not  _yours_. None of them are. I am Ellana and I plant myself here between them and whatever fate you throw at them. I challenge you to remove me. I will protect this world and its people until I am unmade and I will return a thousand times to continue what is right and true.   _I will not yield_.”


	327. Chapter 327

“Hey mom, what’s this?”

Ellana looks up as she pushes another cardboard box to the side of what’s going to be their living room.

Mahanon is looking inside a box that Ellana doesn’t remember packing.

He pulls out a thin, worn, off-white book, frowning as he turns it over. Ellana pushes up from her knees and goes over to look at it with him. Her heart sinks as she looks over his shoulder.

Of course she didn’t remember packing this box when they moved from Bull’s old house to their new one.

It’s because she never unpacked it from when they moved from Dad’s house to Bull’s house. And Ellana hasn’t looked at anything inside of this box since she moved back into Dad’s house when she first got -

“This is your baby book,” Ellana says softly, lowering herself down onto the floor next to him, looking into the contents of a long ignored and almost forgotten box. “Your mother made that for you.”

“My mom?” Mahanon blinks and then his eyes widen with understanding, opening it and flipping through the thick glossy pages. She watches the confusion and disappointment fall onto his face. “There’s nothing here.”

“Your name is there,” Ellana says, flipping the pages back to the front, “And your mother’s name, and your father’s name. And the time you were born and where and how much you weighed and how long your mother took to give birth to you.”

“But there’s nothing else past the first two pages,” Mahanon says.

Ellana takes the book from his hands and holds it in hers.

“I gave your parents this book,” Ellana says softly, “During your baby shower.”

Mahanon is very quiet and Ellana’s heart hurts with familiar longing, regret, remorse, and tired grief.

“My baby shower?” Mahanon prompts when Ellana fails to say anything more.

Ellana dredges up the memory of it. Of them.

Of her brother and her sister who stayed with her long after they aged out, who still got to see and grow up with even though she was adopted by Solas. The brother and sister she found in that orphanage, who cried when they couldn’t take her with them. The brother and sister Ellana survived.

And her brother’s wife, the other sister she gained and lost. The sister who cried when Ellana graduated from college and cheered ferociously when she passed the bar.

Her family.

“They hadn’t said if they knew your gender,” Ellana says, “I mean. It wouldn’t have mattered either way, but I had a thousand different ideas of what to get for you and I wasn’t sure how to narrow it down. What if I got those cute little baby shoes with the little daisies and it turned out you were a boy and your parents didn’t feel comfortable putting them on your little feet? Things like that. So I got them this baby book.”

Ellana runs her hand over the plastic cover, feeling the grit and the dust that had settled over it in the box for so many, many years.

“And your mother laughed at me. She asked me when I thought they’d have time for that,” Ellana says. “We all laughed because it was true. Your mom and dad wouldn’t have time to sleep let alone fill out this book with all the little details of you. But they liked it. Everyone spent a good thirty minutes pretending and imagining what we’d get to fill in for you: your first words, the first solid food you’d eat, when you’d start walking, what color your eyes would be, if you’d be a laughing baby or not.”

Ellana doesn’t know what else to say, so she just holds the book in her hands and focuses on trying to push back the grief that’s been in her for so long, held back by keeping busy and occupied, fermented with time and forceful silence.

“How did they die?” Mahanon asks.

His mouth is set and his eyes are focused. Ellana can see so much of her brother in him.

“I’m  _eleven_ , I’m not a baby anymore,” Mahanon says. “I want to know what happened to them. And Aunt Lyna.”

Her heart catches in her throat and the grief feels impossibly fresh.

“You’ll always be  _my_  baby,” Ellana says finally. It’s taken her almost seven years to understand this - that even though she didn’t give birth to him, even if she was just a little orphan girl that Theron and Lyna got attached to and refused to forget,  _she’s still his mother_.

Ellana sets the book down in her lap and runs her hands through Mahanon’s hair - light like his birth mother’s.

“When you were only a few months old - I don’t think even a year old - your mother died from an infection,” Ellana says. “A complication with something inside of her that her doctor’s didn’t take care of in time and it made her very sick. And by the time they understood what had happened it was too late to save her.”

She remembers the exact room in the hospital her sister-in-law died in.

“Your mother wrote to you,” Ellana continues, “She didn’t have much time left but she wrote you so many letters for you to read as you grew up. They aren’t - they were lost.”

“In the fire that killed dad?”

“Yes,” Ellana says. So many things were lost.

Mahanon looks towards the box.

“These things were at Lyna’s apartment at the time,” Ellana explains. “Her place was closer to the hospital than Theron’s, so Theron had moved in with her so he could be closer to your mother. After your mother passed I suppose he just forgot them.”

Just like Ellana did.

To this day Ellana doesn’t know if Theron had left these things there on purpose. She never asked. She didn’t think to ask.

Myrrha’s death hurt her. Of course it hurt her. Myrrha was like a sister to her. Myrrha was kind and beautiful and strong and boisterous and vivacious and so full of life that even as Ellana stood at her freshly turned grave it was an impossible thing to reconcile - Myrrha and death.

And now -

Now that Ellana is the one left to survive and remember she understands. Now she knows what she would have asked Theron, had he lived.

Mahanon takes the book from her lap, “Could you fill these parts in?”

“Me?”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Mahanon asks, a drop of pleading hope in his voice, wavering and uncertain but so very, very hopeful.

“I’d know some of it,” Ellana says, “Perhaps.”

The rest of it died with Lyna.

“Could you tell me about it?” Mahanon asks, looking up at her and Ellana bends down, kissing his forehead.

“Take this box to your room and put the book in mine. We’ve still got lots of unpacking to do,” Ellana says. “Let’s get our new home in order first, okay?”


	328. Chapter 328

Distance makes the heart grow stranger, dear listeners.

Distance makes the heart grow  _into_  a stranger, perhaps.

The Secret Police Chief, the Iron Bull, has gone on strike following the recent closing, barring, surrounding, barricading, and condemnation of the public library; in which all the librarians and any library goers at the time, were sealed in to perish upon the demolition, exorcism, purification, cementation, and subsequent celebration over the library’s foundations.

As we all know due to the Hawke family’s diligent delivery of the morning gossip, the Secret Police Chief the Iron Bull and Senior Librarian Ellana Lavellan were recently approved for dating by the City Council and Mayor Malika Cadash.

And they are  _such_  a charming couple, listeners, I mean, who  _wouldn’t_  approve them for dating? It’s a match made in library hell! Do any of us know someone who’s wrangled more loose librarians with the least amount of casualties than the Iron Bull? I heard, and this is between you and me listeners - just you and me, this is a sacred trust we’re entering here -, that the Iron Bull has even gone into the  _archives_  of the library. Yes, the mysterious and legendary - mythical even - archives of the library.

The archives of library, deep in the caverns of the library building, beyond the old footage and the newsreels and the negatives. Beyond the most ancient of the foundations with the ritual seals and the deep carved runes of protection and lethal danger, even deeper beyond that into the the wet, moist, dripping, contracting  _belly of the beast itself_.

Yes, listeners.

 _Those_  archives.

And he  _lived_.

The Secret Police Chief has gone on strike, pulling back the Secret Police forces from service until the ban and barricade and destruction of the city library has been rescinded. All civic duties are now being handled by the Obvious Police, who I’m sorry to say, are not doing as good a job. Obviously.

“Well what do you expect from us?” Lieutenant of the Obvious Police, Freddie Arbuckle said to one of the station’s interns when confronted in front of the Obvious Police Station. You know, the one right next to the Secret Police station? “We aren’t meant for this! This isn’t what we signed up for! Everyone knows that. What do you want from us? What do you  _want from us_?”

Lieutenant Freddie Arbuckle proceeded to repeat  _what do you want from us_? in increasingly soft and calm tones, following station intern Luna all the way back to the station.

Lieutenant Freddie Arbuckle is currently standing in the recording studio, just beyond the glass between me and the sound booth, eyes blank and glazed over as he repeats  _what do you want from us?_  over and over.

Hi Freddie! I now the Obvious Police are overworked but you’re doing a great job. Keep up the good work!

A statement from the Secret Police Chief, taken at the Waffle Diner across from Blackwall’s antique store in downtown Skyhold.

“Look, this is just stupid, okay? I mean,  _sure_  librarians are dangerous. But so are Wardens. So are Secret Police. Lots of things are dangerous. Dogs? Dangerous. Three eyed ravens? Very dangerous. Books? Super dangerous. Corn?  _The most dangerous._ I don’t see why we have to kill all the librarians. I’ve got this under control. I mean, the system we’ve got going hasn’t failed us before. We haven’t had a librarian related death in almost three calendar years! We’ve got a sign set up at the station. You can’t see it but it’s there, it totally is.”

You really can’t see the sign at the Secret Police Station. Because no one knows where the Secret Police Station is. I mean, of course it’s right next to the Obvious Police Station, but that doesn’t mean anything. No one’s ever gone to the Obvious Police Station before.

Does it even have doors?

The Secret Police Chief proceeded to say:

“I haven’t seen Senior Librarian Ellana Lavellan in about two weeks. I just want to see her. Is that so weird? I mean - do you want me to say it? I’ll say it. Fuck. Whatever. I love her. I love her a lot. Is that what you wanted me to say? I’ll say it again! I love her! I’ve got official paperwork and everything. Fuck this. I’m going in there.”

The Secret Police Chief then stood up, paid for his pancakes and left the Waffle Diner and got onto his Secret Police dracolisc and rode off in the direction of the library.

Some observations from witnesses at the Waffle Diner:

“Who goes to the Waffle Diner to get _pancakes_? Maybe the Secret Police Chief is off it to start with. Good riddance, maybe. Obviously you go to a Waffle Diner to get  _burgers_. What a weirdo.”

“I think it’s cute. He really likes his librarian. Maybe we’ve been wrong about them the entire time! I’d like to go to the library with an armed escort someday. They can’t be all bad.”

“My  _father_  was killed in a librarian attack seven summer reading programs ago. I don’t care if one librarian just happens to be nice and a stunning conversationalist,  _I want that library gone!_ ”

Some observations from witnesses on the street as the Secret Police Chief rode by on the way to the library:

“How does a big man ride such a little looking lizard?”

“He’s like a faerie prince riding his dragon to save the sorceress from the knight in devilish armor! It’s  _sooooo_  cute!”

“Someone ought to stop him! Think of the children! Someone just think of the children! If the library is opened  _they will be free once more_.”

Oh, just this in listeners, one of the station interns has decoded a message sent by flickering light from the library. It seems to be a message from Senior Librarian  _Mahanon_  Lavellan, Senior Librarian Ellana Lavellan’s spawn-mate. I heard those two emerged from the same growth in the bowels of the archives.

Ahem.

It reads:

“Enough of this foolishness. My sister has been moping and sulking for the past two weeks since this barricade was put up around the library. Do you think that your wood and your sigils and your barbed wire can stop a  _librarian_? Meet with me for parlay at dusk or I will unleash the  _teen romance_  fiction fans. You’re the ones who put them in here with us, we’ve merely been cultivating their skills. You’ve been warned. This is your only warning.”

Well. There you have it listeners.

In other news, Skyhold High’s equestrian soccer team is going up against Ostwick in an away game tonight. Good luck Nuglets!


	329. Chapter 329

“Calling someone washed up and done for at twenty seems awfully rude and presumptuous,” Stitches says, shaking his head as he flips through the paper.

“Who?” Bull asks, half-heartedly spearing some lettuce on his fork. As easy as it is to have their team members just bring in huge tubs of food for everyone to share on rotation, it also sucks when everyone bands against him in order to enforce a  _healthier and balanced diet_.

Bull eats well. He’d appreciate his own subordinates not thinking he’s an incapable person when it comes to self care.

Stitches turns the paper around so he can see the huge photograph. Bull doesn’t recognize the woman in it at first and he thinks that’s probably the point because she doesn’t look like she wants to be recognized.

But he doesn’t really forget faces, especially not ones he was told to study.

Ellana Lavellan at twenty looks a lot sharper than Ellana Lavellan at fifteen did. The roundness has mostly carved itself off of her face and her hair is braided back from her face, and she holds one hand over her eyes - to shield from flash, probably - and she keeps whacking photographers and notebooks and auto-writing quills out of her face with the other.

There’s the beginnings of a snarl on her lips as she tries to push her way through people.

“They really should leave her alone, they don’t bother any of the other tournament players like this,” Stitches says.

“Tournament  _survivors_ ,” Bull corrects. It’s a distinction he likes to make.

Pentaghast has never said that she makes the distinction in her head, but whenever he says it in front of her he can see something in her soften just a little. Smoothen over and release.

“And she’s not just a survivor, Stitches, she’s  _the winner_ ,” Bull says. “They’re going to be hounding that woman for the rest of her life.”

“Well who knew what they wanted to be at twenty?” Stitches says, “Bloody ridiculous.”

Bull was already in Ben Hassrath training at thirteen. He does not say that out loud.

“She’s got time,” Bull shrugs his shoulders and turns back to his salad. He shouldn’t have eaten all the grilled chicken so early on. “She got high marks in potions and herbology. And her family owns land or something? Plenty of work there.”

“I don’t think the papers will be satisfied with the humble work of tending the land and caring for magical creatures, Chief,” Stitches says.

“It’s not about what makes  _them_  satisfied,” Bull says, “It’s about what satisfies  _her_. For all we know she probably just wanted to graduate and make friends and then work at her family’s farm.”

Stitches hums to himself, “I don’t know about that. There’s just something about her that says that she’s not that kind of person.”

“You picked that up from where exactly?”

Stitches shrugs, “Just a feeling. Besides, you met her and you never even talked to her.”

“I’m not the one casting assumptions.”

“Right,” Stitches says, folding the pages on the paper until he gets to the crossword, “Why did you decide not to pursue recruiting her?”

“She didn’t show any interest,” Bull replies, “None of them did.”

-

Sweat is running down her back and sticks the hair thats escaped her ponytail to her temples and her neck. She feels like she’s going to start breathing steam any second now, as she helps Mahanon clean out the hippogriff stables for new hay.

“You’re upset,” Mahanon says, voice barely louder than the sound of their panting breaths. They’ve got a full fourth of the stable left and then they’ve got to  _put in_  the new hay on top of that. Her arms are exhausted.

They could easily do this with magic but somehow the hippogriffs think it’s  _terrible_  and refuse to settle down for the night. So here they are. Doing this the good old fashioned way. For all they know the hippogriffs  _like_  the smell of people’s suffering.

“No,” Ellana replies because she doesn’t have the air in her lungs for it.

“Yes,” Mahanon replies, “Is it the papers?”

“You damn well know it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Well I am, so. There.”

“But you shouldn’t.”

“Are we really going to be just talking about things I shouldn’t be?” Ellana snaps.

“Who cares what they think?”

Ellana scowls, stopping and straightening up, back an awful mess of pain as she narrows her eyes at her brother.

“It’s easy to say things when it isn’t  _you_  they’re hounding and dragging through the mud,” Ellana says as Mahanon also stops, grimacing as he wipes sweat off of his forehead. “I mean - I know I shouldn’t care. They’re nobody to me. But they’re saying it very loudly in my face  _all the time_. It wears a person down, Mahanon. I get  _tired_. And now that I’ve moved in with Max and Kaaras they’re saying I’ve just - I’ve just  _settled_. That I’m Max’s little. I don’t know. How did they say it? The lady of his house? Just some - some woman who sits around doing nothing and drinking tea and shit? I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. And no matter what I say or do it won’t change anything. They’ll just keep spouting these things in my face and twist whatever I say and do to make their stories better.”

Ellana isn’t sure, exactly, where she’s getting the breath for this from. She’s tired and sore and sweaty and hot and it smells in here and she hates that she had to run away back to her family’s farm to hide from the world because she managed to win a terrible tournament when she was fifteen and a brat  _six years ago_.

“And it just keeps getting worse. First I was just washed up, a waste of potential. Now I’m some mistress who’s having salacious affairs for - for security or money or whatever. I hate it. I hate that they’re taking the best thing that fucking tournament ever gave anyone and twisting it around like that.”

“I know you hate it, we all know you hate it,” Mahanon says. “But they aren’t wrong.”

Ellana almost impales her own brother with her pitchfork.

“They’re wrong about everything except one,” Mahanon amends quickly, his own pitchfork raised in defense. “You’ve stagnated. You’re aimless. You do nothing with no goals or ambitions.”

“So?”

“So?” Mahanon repeats. “You aren’t yourself. You’ve always had a goal and now you don’t. It’s not like you, Ellana. Idleness doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not idle, I’m helping around the preserve.”

“And if helping around the preserve was what you wanted to do then why did you leave?” Mahanon replies, “Ellana. This is home. It will always be  _a_  home for you. But your home is with Maxwell and Kaaras and you know it. Your roots might be here but you’re growing out into something out  _there_.”

“Out  _where_? Mahanon, I genuinely don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. What  _anyone_  is talking about.”

Mahanon’s lips press together and he shakes his head, turning back to the hay.

“You do,” He says barely audible, “You just don’t like that you do.”


	330. Chapter 330

“No one’s told me what this quest is about - you know, aside from dragons and general evil that’s out to corrupt and destroy the land,” Ellana says, bumping against Maxwell’s shoulder as they head towards Haven. Apparently they’ve gathered quite a party for this venture and Ellana is incredibly excited to see what sorts of people and magics and schools of adventurer have assembled together in order to complete this grand and epic journey.

“Well. There’s this sorcerer of the arcane arts who’s gotten himself into a bit of a pickle,” Maxwell replies, holding up his arm towards her. Ellana loops her arm through his. “The pickle is that he wants to take over the world and I just happen to live in this world and that thought of someone being in charge of me who  _isn’t_  my cousin or Lady Pentaghast is too incomprehensible for my incredibly simple mind.”

“Max, you’re so dramatic,” Ellana laughs, “Can you tell me more about this sorcerer?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. You know I’m not that good at understanding magic, no matter how much people explain it to me. All that I understand is that he’s the sort of sorcerer that your sort of mage has a profound distaste for.”

“My sort of mage?”

“Evelyn had a much fancier way of saying it,” Maxwell says, “Oi, Lyn. Would you come and explain it to Ellana because your explanations have flown over my head while I was daydreaming about tavern brawls?”

Evelyn turns towards the sound of her name from the the front, where she was discussing something with Kaaras - it looked quite animated from the way their hands were flying about - and gives Maxwell an annoyed, but fond, look of exasperation.

Ellana waves.

Evelyn sighs, touching Kaaras’ shoulder - excusing herself in that very polite way of hers, no doubt -, before falling back in their party to walk next to them.

“There’s a sorcerer of the arcane,” Evelyn says.

“Oh, yes, we got that far. But what  _sort_  of sorcerer of the arcane?” Ellana asks, “Dorian is a sorcerer of the arcane. Are we dealing with a Dorian type of sorcerer?”

“Well, he is from Tevinter,” Maxwell muses.

“He is not a Dorian type of sorcerer,” Evelyn says. “He practices the arts of contagion and distortion, from what we can tell he draws his power from infected magical veins and key points in the land. He uses it to corrupt areas that he can further manipulate to his own will. Here. We’ve managed to contain some samples with Madame de Fer’s help.”

Evelyn pulls a small vial out of her pocket and hands it to Ellana.

Ellana hisses, smelling the rot and the putrid, awful stench of the magic as soon as it’s out of Evelyn’s pocket - no doubt warded and spelled for protection and containment. Ellana refuses to take the vial.

“That’s  _awful_ ,” Ellana snarls, “What kind of awful, terrible, wretch does this sort of thing? And he draws power from this? Weak willed coward born of a maggot’s nest,  _how could he_?”

“Is that what you meant by the sort of sorcerer Ellana would hate?” Maxwell asks.

“I studied the way of the land, the paths of the ancient realms and the secret ways of the under dark realms and the dream scapes,” Ellana says, “My magic draws on the lines of the land, the path of the magic and energy. The entire purpose of my school is to protect, heal, nurture, and convey the needs of the world’s spirit. This goes against all of that.”

“She’s a mage of the wilds,” Evelyn explains to Max, “Anything that manipulates nature or bends the laws of the world is inherently opposed to her own magic. That’s why we need her help for this.”

“Give me that awful thing,” Ellana snaps, unable to take the  _wrongness_  of the vial in Evelyn’s hands for any longer. It feels like all of her bones are  _screaming at her_  as she takes the glass in her hands. She imagines it must feel like a normal glass vial with perhaps a tingle of magical power to everyone else, but in her hands it feels hot and slimy and incredibly disgusting.

“I’m so sorry for what he’s done to you,” Ellana says, stopping and removing her arm from Maxwell’s. She cups the vial in her hands and closes her eyes, drawing magic up through her feet. She feels Lanval land on her shoulder, a familiar and heavy weight as he presses against the side of her head in support, lending his own magic to her for this as well.

The world - even if it isn’t Skyhold - responds to her, and she feels the faint, fragile threads of magic start to sprout up underneath the arch of her foot, her toes, and braid into her own magical power - clear and beautiful and wonderful.

Ellana hums, braiding magic with her voice, and creates a bubble around the infected vial.

She’s not exactly sure what this thing was  _before_  it was corrupted like this. It was black and vicious and moving a little.

Ellana starts to pick and chip away at the darkness, snatching it up in little pieces and purifying the energy before allowing it to disperse.

She doesn’t know or care for how long she stands there, focused on the image she sees in her mind’s eye. But it must be done. This abomination against the world cannot stand.

A knot eases in her chest once her work is finished and Ellana opens her eyes to see, within the vial, clear, pure water.

Ellana smiles and whispers, “Welcome back to the world.”

“I told you she’d be able to do it.”

Ellana looks up to see that the entire party has stopped to wait for her; Dorian and the Iron Bull have come closer. The Iron Bull’s mouth is curled up into a proud grin.

Ellana smiles back at him.

“It remains to be seen if this can be replicated on a larger scale,” Dorian replies, “I mean. Of course she could do it, but we’re talking about entire  _valleys_  that have been corrupted.”

“It doesn’t matter if I can,” Ellana says, “I  _will_. It’s my duty. I cannot turn away from this. It goes against everything I’ve learned and sworn to protect. Get me to these areas of corruption and I’ll cleanse them.”


	331. Chapter 331

“Well, this is where I live,” Ellana says, “And it just so happens that there’s a large amount of other people who live here too so if you see any of them  _ignore them_  and whatever they say. Imagine it like you were dealing with some sort of fey creature. Play by faerie rules.”

“Beauxbatons doesn’t cover faeries until seventh year,” Maxwell replies, “Am I in trouble?”

“Maxwell, you’re the living embodiment of trouble,” Kaaras replies, eyes wide as he looks around, “Wow. This entire place is yours?”

“It’s mine and my brother’s and our parents and our uncles and cousins and grandparent’s and in-laws and second cousins and so on and so forth,” Ellana shrugs, “I mean. At some point I figure I’m not really related to some of these people anymore but they’re still family. Anyway it’s the Lavellan’s and it’s also those hippogriffs and those cats and these kneazles and also those whomping willows and those dracoliscs and several, several nugs and their variant kin…Honestly I could go on for a while. I’m sure someone has a complete list of what we have here, I don’t. Let’s go boys.”

The two follow her through fields towards a squat and wide two story house that’s covered in ivy and blooming white flowers.

“Mom, Dad,” Ellana calls out, “Sour puss.”

One of the windows on the second floor opens and an arm sticks out, flipping them the middle finger.

“That’s my brother,” Ellana says, “He graduated last year and he helps our parents around the preserve. He’s got a good hand with creatures of the canine persuasion.”

One of the windows on the first floor is thrown open and a man with hair going in every direction but down sticks his head out. He has dark smudges all over his face and neither Kaaras nor Maxwell are sure if his hair is naturally black or if it’s the same substance as whatever’s on his skin, “Oh good, you’re back. And you’ve got extra hands. Excellent. There’s a situation with the fire salamanders. Are any of you good with water based magics?”

The man blinks, frowns, and quickly turns upwards after a moment, just in time to see Ellana’s brother pull back his arm and lean out to look down at his father and say, “The situation with the salamanders has been resolved but Lonora just sent a message that the sphinxes are acting up.”

“You have  _sphinxes_?”

“Hi Dad, this is Maxwell and Kaaras,” Ellana says, “They’re staying with us for a few weeks. I’m putting them in the room next to mine, with the baby kneazles. And I thought I’d take them to different areas of the farm today. Kaaras was saying he was looking for a pet.”

“I was?”

Before either boy could introduce themselves a third window slams open from the other side of the house’s second floor and a woman with thick hair in a frazzled braid sticks her entire upper torso out looks around, eyes narrowed.

Mahanon immediately darts back inside, the window clattering shut behind him.

“Mahanon Lavellan,” She bellows out. “ _Did you flip your little sister and our guests off? Don’t you hide from me!_ ”

“Is your mother charmed?” Kaaras asks Ellana as he puts his hands over his ears.

“That has to be some sort of magic,” Maxwell says.

“Oh no, she’s got a set of lungs on her,” Ellana refutes, “Come on. Let’s get settled. I’m sure people will be stopping by all day to say hello and get a good look at the two of you.”

“The two of us? Whatever for? They do know that we were coming, right?” Maxwell asks.

“Well, there was that huge scandal about us being in a threesome over winter break, remember? And I don’t think it’s exactly died down at all,” Ellana says, “Of course I’ve told them it’s not true. But still. They’d want to see. Anyway, gossip. Kaaras show me the letter the Iron Bull sent you. Did he  _really_  send you commendations to apprentice later this summer?”

-

“Hi,” Bull looks up and sees Ellana Lavellan standing to the doorway of his office. His team’s offices have been empty for almost a half hour - those ungrateful fuckers went off for drinks and left him to finish the paperwork for their latest case. And on top of that they decided to all throw in their time off requests at the same time for approval. “Is this a bad time?”

Bull can count on one hand the amount of times Ellana Lavellan has been in his office.

It’s two.

Now and that time a few weeks ago when everyone was falling all over themselves to cash their winnings over a pool made on how fucking stupid he is.

“Sure,” Bull says, “Take a seat.”

“It won’t take long,” She waves her hand and she looks tired. More tired than he’s ever seen her. “I just wanted to tell you - about the other day - “

“I’m an idiot,” Bull says, “And everyone is right in that I have no right to be the head of this team with a blind spot that huge.”

“Listen,” Ellana says, holding her hand out to stop him. “It’s fine. You’re fine. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to do anything. You’ve no obligation to respond.”

“I think I do,” Bull’s eyebrows raise, “I’m fairly certain that I’m overdue a response, actually.”

“No,” Ellana shakes her head, “As the person who’s currently having the feelings, I’m telling you, you aren’t. Yes, I like you. Yes, I’ve liked you for a very long time. And yes, that’s why I’ve been…stand offish to you. But I never told you and I never asked you for anything. And I’m  _not_  going to ask you for anything.”

Ellana lowers her hand, her other hand resting against the doorframe.

“My issues are several. I’m not denying that. But they’re mine and I’m working on them in my own way. You don’t need to do anything. Just keep going as you were and I’ll keep going as I am, and eventually I won’t be such a dick to you. Okay?”

“You aren’t a dick to me,” Bull replies.

“I kind of am,” Ellana says, mouth twitching up at the corner, “As Maxwell says it, I turn on the Slytherin for you.”

“I don’t know, it’s kind of cute. You don’t have to stop that. An example of a dick would be Carver on your team. Ellana. I’m sorry. Really.”

Ellana’s hand closes on the doorframe and she knocks the wood sharply, pushing off the frame and, “Right. It’s appreciated. But there’s really nothing to apologize for. I’ll be heading out now. You know your team’s been lingering in the hallway for the past hour and a half, right? I had to cast about four different types of charms after walking in here to check if there was anything weird going on. Are they okay?”


	332. Chapter 332

Pookie is gnawing nervously at one of his horns as he swims from the lake’s shore towards Lavellan’s Salamence towards the middle of the water.

Her Swampert’s dark, sharp, fins crest and dive at random points around him. It’d be unnerving if he didn’t know the guy since he was a Marshtomp and a nervous crybaby. He feels a light brush against his stomach that’s probably the Swampert’s fins before he swims off again.

Lavellan is sunbathing completely topless on her Salamence’s back as the pokemon leisurely floats, happily relaxing in the lake’s cool waters. One of her newly befriended - not caught, there’s an important distinction - Scraggy is chilling on Salamence’s back with her, wearing one of her numerous pairs of sunglasses. It looks comically overlarge on its little round head.

Lavellan’s got a giant reflective foil spread out over her legs to reflect sun back up on her upper body and plastic sunglasses covered in plastic daisies over her eyes.

Over the sound of the lake’s waters he can hear the others playing on the shore. There’s loud laughter, someone’s got old ballads pounding out of portable speakers. And he can also hear Cassandra and Dorian having a tag-team fight against Cullen and Evelyn.

“Permission to board?” Bull asks, half jokingly as Pookie grumbles and snarls on top of Bull’s head.

Pookie doesn’t wait for Lavellan to respond, she just jumps off of Bull and launches himself onto the Salamence, quickly clambering up and flopping down on Lavellan’s stomach, tucking herself in with a sort of stubborn and resentful pride as she shoots a glare at Bull. She snaps her jaws a few times before curling away from him and going to sleep.

Smug little shit.

Lavellan flicks her sunglasses up and narrows her eyes at him, “You brought Pookie out here? You know she’s scared of the water. That’s mean of you.”

“I was trying to teach her how to swim,” Bull says, glancing down when he feels something lightly tug at his leg. Probably Lavellan’s Swampert.  _Probably_. “Anyway. Nice tits. Suns out, tits and guns out.”

“Right back at you, babe. Get those pecs glistening,” Lavellan’s sunglasses drop back down on her face as she resumes her sunbathing, “I’ve got to get an even summer glow to get rid of my winter glow.”

Bull supposes that these things make sense in Lavellan’s mind.

“Right,” Bull says, “You need anything? I think your Swampert wants my attention.”

“What if  _I_  wanted your attention?”

“You’d have to tell your Swampert not to dunk me, then,” Bull says. He feels another tug at his ankle at the same time, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lavellan’s Swampert breach the water on the opposite shore, shaking excess water from his body and lope over to start messing around with Bull’s Ursaring and Maxwell’s Gardevoir. “Wait a second. Why is he - ?What the  _shit_  - “

-

“I’m taking my Furfrou to get trimmed with de Fer’s pokemon,” Bull calls out towards the closed bathroom door, “Do any of yours need anything? You good in there?”

Bull pauses as he hears the sound of retching.

“Mint maybe?” He suggests. “A new tube of toothpaste? Mouthwash? New glasses so you can see a bad decision before it turns into hindsight?”

“The release of death,” Lavellan croaks out. There’s some more retching and then she says, “My guys don’t need any maintenance, but could you maybe just get them away for a while? They fuss.”

At this very moment there is a very, very concerned Tyranitar about to pick Bull up and toss him aside to he can rip open the bathroom door to be next to his trainer. He’d take out the wall in the process but nothing like a wall has ever stopped anything on Lavellan’s team before. It’s not going to start now.

“Yeah, got it,” Bull says, reaching back and patting the Tyranitar on the chest as the pokemon presses forward, about to start tearing the room apart, “You heard her, Acorn. Come on. Lets give her some space.”

Bull’s Furfrou is primly sitting on the bed looking deeply unimpressed. He huffs and delicately jumps off the bed, prancing out of the room, head held high.

“I don’t know how you got that way,” Bull calls out towards the retreating pokemon, pushing the Tyranitar out in front of him, “You weren’t this prissy before. Where’s Pookie and Grievous?”

By the time Bull’s at Skyhold’s garage he’s collected most of their pokemon with a few exceptions: Lavellan’s Haunter was busy sneaking in and out of Cullen’s shadow, fucking with him by moving stuff whenever Cullen wasn’t looking. Bull’s not going to interrupt that. And Bull’s Blaziken was busy training with Maxwell’s Gardevoir and Aegislash, and Cassandra’s Medicham.

And Lavellan’s Gyrados, but she’s notoriously hard to find for something that’s the size of three of Skyhold’s main dining hall table.

Bull smacks the side of one of the transport trucks, “Alright, get in. I know you’re worried about your trainer but she’s worried about you guys being worried and that’s not going to help her with her food poisoning. She’s just got to throw up and shit for a while and she’ll be good.”

It’s not the most delicate way to say anything, but sometimes you’ve just got to be straightforward about it. Especially when you’re talking to a bunch of Pokemon with who take after their trainer. And that trainer is Ellana Lavellan.

Bull makes sure all of Lavellan’s pokemon are loaded and secured first and then his just to make sure they don’t ditch while he’s driving. He’s reasonably sure that his Wigglytuff will get them all in line and calm them down a bit. Or, you know. Knock them the fuck out. Probably the latter if Lavellan’s Tyranitar gets rowdy.

The truck’s horn honks and Bull rolls his eyes as his Furfrou sticks his head out the driver’s window and glares.

“relax, we’re way ahead of schedule,” Bull says, “Next time I’m just going to hand your poke ball over to de Fer and be done with it. Jeez.”


	333. Chapter 333

“We have to prioritize which dragons will give us the best advantage,” Maxwell says as he uses stones to hold the map down on the stone floor. “We’ll have limited water and rations for our soldiers and allies, let alone dragons as well.”

“Plus we also can’t leave Skyhold unguarded,” Evelyn frowns as she looks over the map that Maxwell is setting up.

Ellana makes a clicking sound as she squirms around the stone floor, scratching the scales and spines of her back against the rocks, twisting around like a kitten as she tries to snap at Mahanon’s claws whenever he tries to hit her. Ellana’s hind-claws stretch out as she arches before she squirms around, head swinging wide across the stone with a low rasping sound as she blinks at Evelyn, cooing in question.

“Yes, the Chargers will be coming,” Evelyn says to the dragon, “They’ve got the best battle experience as a flight and they’re good at working on their own. Don’t worry, your best friends are coming.”

Ellana humphs to herself, a small curl of black smoke rising from her nostrils in satisfaction before she resumes trying to antagonize her brother.

Mahanon’s retreated to the other side of the stone cave and settled next to Dorian, tucking himself under one of Dorian’s brilliant red wings.

Ellana stretches her hind legs up into the air and squawks at having her fun cut short. Mahanon blows a curl of smoke at her in a very smug manner.

“There,” Maxwell says, drawing Evelyn’s attention back to the map he’s set up. “This is probably the formation we should be using.”

“You aren’t putting Kaaras and Herah up front?” Evelyn asks, tapping the marker that they’ve been using for their larger dragons that’s positioned towards the rear guard.

“We’ll be putting our siege weapons up first to take care of their anti-dragon attacks,” Maxwell says, “But we also have our door breakers towards the back with our catapults and bigger equipment. Kaaras is a big target and he’s a valuable asset when you consider that he’s pretty good at casting. We’ll put him towards the back that way the archers and anti-dragon armaments of the fortress are mostly taken care of -  _ideally_  - by the time we’re ready to send him in.”

Evelyn taps the series of markers they’ve been using for the Iron Bull’s Chargers, “And the Iron Bull is aware that we’ll be sending him and the Valo-kas flights in first before the Inquisition’s?”

“We’ve talked it over,” Maxwell says, “He’s the one to suggest putting Kaaras towards the back, actually. Cullen and I were considering having Kaaras go in flanking you and your dragons as back up.”

“Nothing can hit those two in the air,” Evelyn says, glancing to where Ellana has squirmed her way into annoying distance of her brother. She’s started trying to snag his tail. Dorian seems very amused with all the fun the twin dragons are supposedly having and is doing his best not to get between the two. “They’re absolute misery on the ground, though. Ellana knock that off. Come over here and help me plan.”

Ellana’s frills rattle and her scales shift with a slight bronze-pink tone before returning to their neutral white, and she comes back over, resting her head next to Evelyn’s knee. Evelyn gives the dragon a scratch around the back of her head spines as Ellana starts a low happy purr.

“Dragon or cat, I can’t tell with you sometimes.”

“Have you tried throwing a stick? They go absolutely bananas,” Maxwell says.

Ellana nudges Evelyn’s knee.

“It’s a fruit,” Evelyn explains, “It’s yellow and you have to peel it open to get to the part you eat. I’ll show you a picture of one after this.”

She turns back towards the map, “Are we really going in through the front gates?”

“It’s a fortress in the middle of a desert, cousin,” Maxwell replies, “What are we going to do? Sneak up from behind? Yes, we’re going through the front gates. The Inquisition’s got to show them who’s boss anyway.”

-

Ellana and Mahanon are lounging about, half in the water and half out of the water as Evelyn and Vivienne go through the books they’d taken from the abandoned house. Maxwell and Cassandra are busy making sure the bodies are purified and any magical presence is secured. This is mostly done via bonfire and tossing things in and seeing what happens.

“It looks like someone was harboring a mage, an untrained one,” Vivienne says, flipping through a diary. “And it ended as poorly as one would expect. It’s sad, really.”

Evelyn hums in vague agreement as she reads the diary of who is most likely the mage turned abomination. A young girl. Maybe less than ten years old.

Her heart aches.

She feels a gentle nudge against her back. Glancing over her shoulder she sees that Ellana has come over and is looking at her with concern, head tilted to the side. Mahanon is a bit behind her, also looking at her.

“Do you want to read, too?” Evelyn asks.

The two dragons come further out of the water and lay down on the grassy banks, one on each side of her, as they bend their heads close to hers to read. She can tell that they’re curious about what happened in the house. They were only able to see the latter part when they were fighting in the inner courtyard.

Said inner courtyard is a mess of acid and burn marks and shattered glass from said dragons.

Evelyn holds the book out a little away from herself so that the two can see better.

“This house once belonged to a family, a noble family,” Evelyn begins, “And they had a daughter. The daughter started to show magic potential…and that’s where things got complicated.”

Mahanon huffs, as if to say  _obviously_.

Ellana nudges Evelyn to continue.

“They didn’t want to let her go,” Evelyn says.

“And they lost her anyway,” Vivienne says, just as soft as Evelyn. The two of them share a look of shared understanding. Whatever a person’s view on the Circle…it’s still sad. Whether this happened because the family was careless and selfish, or because the Circle projects an image of abuse and destruction, there is no denying the tragedy that happened here.


	334. Chapter 334

Mahanon has the best stories. Sometimes at night when she doesn’t want to sleep yet she’ll whisper into the dark  _Mahanon! Mahanon!_  and he’ll appear in the corner of her room out of the shadows.

When Ellana was little,  _very little_ , even littler than she is now, she used to be scared of things hiding in the shadows.

Her Uncles both told her she shouldn’t be afraid because they’re much scarier than the things in the shadows and Ellana had said that they weren’t scary at all. Ellana had thought that they were more sad than scary, but she hadn’t said that part out loud. She just said the part about them not being scary and Uncle Falon’din had said - “What? I’m not?” and then picked her up and threw her into the air so high that she could see the tops of the trees and then Aunt Sylaise started to yell.

It was Uncle Dirthamen who caught her and spun her around and kissed her and proceeded to tell her stories while Aunt Sylaise and Uncle Falon’din bickered and chased each other around Father’s herb garden.

Ellana is still little - but Aunt Mythal promises that she won’t be this little forever, just for a little while and she always says that Ellan should enjoy it more but how can she when everyone puts the most interesting things on the highest shelves and gets mad at her when she tries to climb up to get them? - but she isn’t scared of things that go about the shadows anymore.

“Tell me a story,” Ellana says to the dark and Mahanon sighs, coming out of the shadows and nudging her over on her bed. He lies down next to her on his side, curved around her and warm and smelling clean like the bath and his hair glitters from the moonlight from her window. Ellana wishes she were big like her brother is.

“What sort of story will put you to bed tonight?” Mahanon asks like he asks every time she asks for a story.

“Tell me how you come into my room through the shadows,” Ellana asks like she does every night.

Mahanon doesn’t make a sound when he laughs, he just touches his fingtertip to her nose and says, “That’s not a story, though, little sister. And even if it was that wouldn’t put you to bed at all, would it? Now. What sort of story will put you to bed?”

Mahanon has hundreds and hundreds of stories about all sorts of adventures and there are some stories that he won’t tell her because he says she has to wait until she’s more grown up for them. But there’s one that he  _does_  tell her and she loves it the best of all.

It has everything in it.

Dragons, a prince, a princess, a witch, a sorcerer, wild gods, fey creatures, swords, and - best of all -  _dogs_.

“Tell me the story of how your hair turned pale,” Ellana says, “Please?”

“Again?” Mahanon sighs as she cuddles up next to him, looking up at his face expectantly. Mahanon smiles down at her. “Could I offer you a different story? Perhaps a story of cats and oranges?”

“No!”

“No? Well then, how about a story about a talking egg the size of you?”

“No! I don’t want that story. Please, Mahanon?”

Mahanon holds a finger to his lips and Ellana tugs her blankets up over her mouth and nose. Mahanon sits up a little and so does Ellana, they both see shadows from under her doorway.

Father stands beyond Ellana’s door for a long time before retreating.

“Mahanon please? Before Father makes me go to sleep?” Ellana pleads. “You can tell me about the cat and the orange and the egg next time. Please, please, please?”

“You are insatiable,” Mahanon replies, voice a soft, soft whisper. “Very well. Lay down. Now, where do I begin?”

“At the tower!”

“If I start at the tower, what shall I say about the sword? Let us start with the princess, then.”

-

“Have you found anything else about this man of marble?” Solas asks, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he joins his brother on the crest of the cliff. Elgar’nan shakes his head, gaze focused on something far away.

Solas bites back his disappointment. Elgar’nan’s jaw clenches and his fists close. Solas can see the gathering heat and light in his brother’s veins.

“There’s time,” Solas offers. Ellana is only seven. They have a few years left.

And yet -

When you live as Solas and his siblings do -

It isn’t enough. Years? Decades? They are equal to moments in their lives. They live so long. Too long, maybe.

Elgar’nan closes his eyes and releases a long breath that steams in the chilly winter air around them.

“I look and I see but I find nothing,” Elgar’nan says. “I look everywhere, I see everything. There is nothing that can hide from my eyes. And yet it I find  _nothing_.”

“It would help if we had a clearer definition of what to look for,” Solas says.

“And how goes your own search?” Elgar’nan asks, eyes opening as he turns to Solas. “What do you find in dreams?”

“The spirits have nothing to tell me,” Solas says, “They do not understand as we do. I cannot tell them what to look for when I myself don’t know what I am trying to find. I begin to wonder if this man even exists.”

“Mythal saw him,” Elgar’nan shrugs, “And she is not like you or I. She speaks the truth on this matter, of that I am certain.”

Elgar’nan blows out another curl of steam.

“How is she?” Elgar’nan asks.

“You could visit her yourself,” Solas says.

“She visits me on her own,” Elgar’nan replies. “And I did not think you would appreciate me being on your territory.”

Solas turns towards his brother away from the horizon in time to see Elgar’nan turning away.

“We have been rivals and enemies for a very long time,” Solas says, “But I believe that when you met my daughter whatever lies between us was…put aside. She looks up to you. And I’ve watched you struggle for her. You are welcome.”


	335. Chapter 335

The summer before the Conclave seemed to last forever. As if the world was giving Ellana one last glimpse at something wonderful, something ineffable, before thrusting her into what - at the time - felt like a never ending descent into nothingness.

Ellana reaches out and grasps the Iron Bull’s Hand, as they walk and this, too, is something ineffable.

During Corypheus, during all of that - it had felt like time had both slowed down immeasurably and threatened to slow to a final and permanent stop. For all the things that they were doing, for all the things they chased and hunted, for all that they  _were_  chased and hunted, for all that everyone was constantly aware of how  _this may be the end…_

That time seemed to stretch on forever past the Frostbacks, in Ellana’s mind.

“Do you remember when Evelyn sent us out to take care of giants in the Graves?” Ellana asks.

“Yes,” Bull answers, hand squeezing around hers once, “Why?”

“Nothing,” Ellana says, “I was just remembering things. It feels like so long ago. It’s strange. Do you remember the summer before the Breach?”

Bull laughs, “Your face when I threw you over the waterfall.”

Ellana walks into his side, jabbing him with her elbow. He lightly pushes her back.

“You’re a tit,” Ellana says. “You didn’t throw  _Rocky_  over the waterfall.”

“I did the next day,” Bull replies, “You just didn’t see it because you and Skinner were chasing Grim around the forest like idiots.”

“We were  _not_. It was a  _training_  exercise,” Ellana huffs. “It was training.”

“Sure it was. Whatever you need to tell yourself, Wolf,” Bull says. “Sudden nostalgia?”

“It’s just that time seemed to go on forever,” Ellana says, “And that summer was so… _good_. In hindsight like it was too good.”

Bull’s hand lets go of hers and raises up to run over her head, ruffling her hair. “You’re thinking about it too much. It is what it is. And it was good. We should go back to that waterfall this summer. I’ll throw you off it again.”

Ellana rolls her eyes. “We’ll see. Evelyn might need us to go somewhere.”

“As one of her favorite advisors, I’m sure you can wrangle two weeks out of her to do as you want. What happened to using mystical god quests as your excuse?”

“I don’t think that will play anymore,” Ellana says, “Seeing as Evelyn can also snag the Wolf in her dreams if she tries hard enough. I never should have taught her that. Did you know the two of them will drag me into their Dreams to settle their debates? It’s terrible. I’d be in the middle of complete relaxing bliss - dreaming of, I don’t know. Dozing in a field or riding my hart through the woods and suddenly I’m in a stuffy room between Evelyn and the Wolf and they’re yelling about the semantics of finger positioning when you’re casting a glyph.  _Who cares_ , it’s a  _glyph_  your fingers don’t actually do anything then, it’s just the accuracy of the lines that matters.”

-

“He was writing something,” Ellana whispers to Skinner, holding her scarf over her nose and mouth as Stitches inspects the strange powder and foam over the desk. “His hands have ink.”

Skinner hums, “Find the paper.”

“On it,” Ellana nods, as the two of them carefully start looking around for where the paper went or for any other clues.

“Nasty work, this,” Stitches says, scraping samples off of the desk and body into small glass vials. “I can’t say for certain, but I’m sure that one of the Spymaster’s people knows. It’s probably rare. Not from here. If anything they can track the sale of ingredients, or maybe the poison itself. I don’t know any hands who use this as their signature, it has to be somewhere up top. Or personal request, maybe.”

“A professional hit?”

“Probably from someone with a lot of money. Definitely not us. The Spymaster will be displeased that someone beat us to it, now we have to find whoever  _that_  is and why  _they_  wanted this one down too,” Skinner says. “The fireplace. Part of a note. Not much to go on. But the ink is different - this is blue. The hands?”

“Black,” Stitches says.

“What’s on the note?” Ellana asks.

“Numbers, a cypher? An account?” Skinner shakes her head, “There’s not enough. Here, take it. Your god knows puzzles, try this one.”

Ellana takes the curled and blackened parchment with her fingertips, frowning at the numbers on it. They could be sums or debts, but it could also be a code. It really isn’t enough to say.

“Whatever it is, it’s enough to get killed for. It was worth destroying.” Ellana carefully slides the fragile parchment between the folds of her tunic and armor, flat against her. “Lets go, Bull and Krem can only distract for so long before they annoy someone into another murder. We only wanted one of those tonight and I don’t fancy dragging the Iron Bull’s corpse all the way back to our camp sight. I found nothing on my side. And there’s no signs of magic or disturbances left over from enchantment or curses. Whatever this is, it’s not going to be found by me.”

The two nod and Ellana goes back to the window, casting the spell to muffle the sounds of them leaving, when she catches a glimpse of something.

“Hold on now,” Ellana whispers, touching her fingers to the scrap of snagged fabric on the outer stone ledge, “How did you get here?”

“Found something?” Stitches asks. “Caught from the assassin? Seems careless. Sloppy, considering that we haven’t found anything else.”

“More suspicious than sloppy,” Skinner says from behind Stitches. “It doesn’t match the rest of the work.”

“Possibly. Could be bait for us?” Ellana shakes her head, climbing out the window and preparing to rappel down, “I’ll show you once we’re out of here. I have a feeling that this man was playing more sides than we knew of. This assassination just got very, very complicated.”


	336. Chapter 336

“The Lavellan clan has been in business for years,” Uncle Edric explains to Malika as they exit the car behind Mom’s, looking up at a huge antique of a building. It’s got these long windows and really intricate carvings in the stone archways and everything. It’s some sort of fancy person town house from back in the old days when something like evening dress and dinner parties was a thing. Malika’s read some really good fiction, she’d know about this. “But they’ve only started becoming popular in the past generation or so.”

“What are they in the business for?” Malika asks, following him as they enter through the narrow glass paned doors - there’s stained glass flowers on the doors and everything, this is some really fancy stuff.

“Weapons dealing,” Uncle Edric, “Is their front.”

“Wait, pump those brakes,” Malika frowns, lowering her voice as she whispers to her uncle, “The Lavellan family’s legal business is that they’re tailors for the elite. And that’s a front for their weapons smuggling.  _But that’s also a front_? How many layers is this?”

“Cadash.”

Malika looks up and sees a very tall, very imposing Qunari man waving people into the house where they’re being checked for anything hidden.

“Bull. Malika, this is Bull, one of the Lavellan clan’s best muscle. He runs a merc group called the Iron Bull’s Chargers but they take on a lot of jobs for the Lavellans.”

Malika gapes up at the man who gives her a short nod.

“Oh my god, I heard about the job you did in Sarnia and it was  _amazing_ ,” Malika gasps.

The Iron Bull grins, “I like this one.”

There’s a sharp whistle from deeper in the house and Malika sees mom impatiently waving for them to hurry up and join them.

“Any tips for handling your boss?” Edric asks.

“Grovel, probably,” The Iron Bull shrugs a shoulder, “Compliment her shoes? I don’t know. She’s been fighting with her brother over summer trends for the clothing business.”

“I thought that’s just a cover?” Malika asks.

The Iron Bull laughs, “They got really invested in the cover part of their jobs instead of the actual thing. Since I like you I’ll tell the boss to send you off with a hat or something. A souvenier.”

“I don’t know if my head is really hat-shaped,” Malika says as she follows her uncle deeper into the house, past several well dressed armed guards, “Dad’s always teasing me and saying I have a cone shaped head from how hard Mom had to push to get me out into the world.”

“Nonsense,” A blonde elf says as she holds the door open to a sitting room, “No such thing as a head’s not hat-shaped. Right boss?”

Malika gets her first look of the Lavellan family’s current boss and that first look is that she’s wrestling with a man who looks a lot like her - the brother - on the wood floor and there’s a lot of hair pulling, biting, and cursing.

“Someone poke them with a stick,” a man says from a bar cart as he’s pouring mom a drink, “A really long stick.”

Malika joins her mom and the man at the bar cart gives her a warm smile and hands her orange juice in a really nice glass. Malika looks around the room. It’s very pretty. Sconces and stuff. The ceiling’s got pretty embellishments around the light fixtures and stuff.

Bull joins them in the room and gets one hand on each elf and pulls them apart.

“I thought you guys were trying to look good for the other families?” Bull asks. “Speaking of, the matriarch of the Cadash clan is here. You know. The biggest Carta family on the surface of Thedas?”

“ _Florals are eternal_ ,” The dark haired woman says, huffing as she fixes her hair.

“Florals are the most unoriginal spring look since the color  _pink_ ,” The man snaps, straightening his jacket and grimacing at his busted lip, “For this season we’re dressing Evelyn in silver and lavender with touches of jade.”

“But it’s just so  _boring_ ,” the woman groans. “Bull, tell me you agree on this.”

“No comment,” Bull replies, stepping away from the two.

The man and woman grumble, but turn to join Malika and her mom at the cart, pouring themselves some drinks as well.

“Hello again, Edric,” The woman says, “And Madame Cadash. Is this your daughter?”

“Yes,” Mom says, putting a firm hand on Malika’s shoulder, “This is my Malika. Malika, this is the boss of the Lavellan family, Ellana Lavellan, and her brother, Mahanon Lavellan. They’ve been arming our family for about ten years now and they do a damn good job of it.”

“And dressing your family,” Mahanon muses, “I designed the dress for your mother and father’s fifth anniversary.”

“I designed the one for their  _tenth_ , so whatever,” Ellana says smiling at Malika and holding her hand out, “I’ve heard so much about you. I was beginning to think I’d never get to meet you. Truly unfair as you’ve already met everyone else.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Malika says, “I mean. About hearing stuff about you. Hi. I. Uh. I like your shoes?”

Ellana blinks and beams, “Thank you!”

Malika, honestly, actually hasn’t seen Ellana’s shoes. She takes quick glance down and sees that the woman is wearing some smart, pointed, navy kitten heels with flowers.

“I told you these shoes were cute,” Ellana says to her brother who rolls his eyes and stalks off towards a desk covered in paper and fabric swatches. “Come, come. Let’s sit. Drink. Chat. It’s always a pleasure to serve the house Cadash. And while we’re at it - “

Ellana pulls out a roll of measuring tape, “Let’s get you a nice hat. To commemorate our first meeting.”

“I’m not sure my head is hat-shaped.”

“Nonsense, there’s no such thing as a head that isn’t hat-shaped,” Ellana says, waving them over towards a sitting area. “But we can talk about that later. Tell me, Lady Cadash, are you going to be entering the season this year? I know you skipped out last year because of that terrible incident at the border, but this year we would  _love_  to style your family. Mahanon and I have been playing around with designs for ages.”

“That depends, Ellana,” Mom says as they sit on a green and cream colored couch - Uncle Edric’s started talking to Mahanon over the table -, “Any information on who else is going to be doing the rounds?”

“You know that’s confidential, I couldn’t do business if I gave away information on families,” Ellana laughs and then her smile takes on a shade of dark, “But as one woman who appreciates fashion to another? Samson’s been looking for some…suits. Lots of them. Too many for one man to wear in a season. And he’s got the money for it, too.”


	337. Chapter 337

Evelyn looks up from her book - the latest one Maxwell’s sent over from his tour of Ferelden that she hopes that he’s absolutely miserable on. How completely unfair that Maxwell gets invited for jaunts around southern Thedas and Evelyn is stuck  _here_  at the estate listening to her parents drone on and on and on and on  _forever -_ and sees Leonora looking quite flustered.

“Lady Evelyn,” She calls out, voice high with stress and looking quite red faced as she comes to a panting halt, “Lady Evelyn.”

“Leonora, please sit,” Evelyn says, moving over on the low backed bench she had been sitting on, “What’s the matter? It’s not like you to be running around red faced, that’s something you’re normally cross about with  _me_.”

Leonora shakes her head, breathing in deeply, “There’s a visitor, Lady Evelyn. He came unannounced and without an appointment and he is most urgent in that he needs to speak with you right away.”

Evelyn’s eyebrows raise. Maxwell and his coterie have gone off touring Ferelden, Kaaras hasn’t yet gotten out of the college for the year, and that she knows of the Hawke’s are still sorting out their estate in Kirkwall.

“It’s Ser Lavellan of the Frozen Fields,” Leonora says, wringing her hands together.

“Ah,” Evelyn says, knowingly. It’s Mahanon, then. No wonder Leonora is kicking up such a fuss.

Lucky that Mother is out for tea and Father has gone to his club. They’d have thrown an absolute  _fit_  at Mahanon being over.

And Mahanon’s never scheduled an appointment for visiting with anyone,  _ever_.

“I’ll see him.”

“Well I’m already here, so you’d be seeing me anyway.”

Leonora makes a sharp, high pitched squeak of surprise and Evelyn turns up to see Mahanon standing in the doorway to the back of the house looking sharp in his riding clothes and also very cross.

“It’s fine, Leonora. Could you please fetch the tea cart?” Evelyn says, putting a comforting hand on Leonora’s shoulder as Mahanon strides over. Leonora looks between them and looks like she’s about to say something about impropriety but Evelyn just gives her a very firm look and says, “Thank you for you service, Leonora.”

And off she goes, no doubt to gossip as well.

“You’re very lucky my parents aren’t here,” Evelyn says as Mahanon takes the vacant seat next to her. “What’s got you in such a fuss?”

“I need a beard,” Mahanon says.

Evelyn squints at him. “Leave the facial hair to Dorian, I don’t think it would suit you.”

Mahanon looks even more cross as he glowers at her, “Not that sort of beard. Pretend to date me this season.”

Evelyn stares at him, “Pardon?”

“Pretend to go out with me this courting season,” Mahanon repeats slowly, “As in, when the parties start off next month and all the men and ladies go about in parties and tea and all that formality.”

“ _Why_?”

Mahanon crosses his arms, glaring at some neatly manicured rose bushes. “You are aware that my family has been having trouble with poachers on our lands.”

“Yes, Ellana was in a right state a month or so ago. They had shot one of your hounds, no?”

Mahanon nods, “So our parents decided to hire some swords to deal with a few of the poachers and make an example that the house of Lavellan’s borders are not light boundaries to be crossing.”

Mahanon stops, clenches his jaw, and puts his hand over his face.

“Alright, and? How does this lead to you asking me to  _pretend to court you_?”

“Ellana’s gone and run off with the Iron Bull. The entire family is in the midst of a crisis over it.”

Evelyn’s mind feels like it comes to a scrambling crash against a very sturdy brick wall.

“Your sister?  _Ellana_? She’s - with the —? The one who?”

“Yes, the one who’s had a very good time with many men, women, and both at once,” Mahanon groans. “That Iron Bull.”

Evelyn slowly turns to stare ahead of them, feeling quite dazed.

“Oh.”

“That is the exact reaction half of the family had when we realized she was missing as well as our hired mercenaries.”

“They stole your sister and broke contract?”

“Oh no. They completed the contract just fine. And everyone knows Ellana cannot be  _stolen_. She went off with them,” Mahanon sounds completely and entirely exasperated. “The issue is that the future matriarch to the  _House of Lavellan, protectors of the Frozen Fields, Wardens of the East_  has run off with a sell sword without so much as a  _ta now, I’ll write_. So everyone’s turning to  _me_  now and while you and I and my family knows that I’m not going to be marrying a woman anytime during my life and is quite fine with that, that doesn’t mean the rest of the world knows that.”

“Dorian,” Evelyn whispers in understanding.

“I wrote Dorian this morning. I expect I’ll be getting a reply within the week,” Mahanon says, “But we had spoken about what we would do in a situation in which I was suddenly…thrust into the light as it were and he was not yet ready to expose himself in such a way. I’ve already sent after my sister. Ellana is eccentric and mercurial, but she isn’t irresponsible. She’ll most likely be back within the year to resume her duties and in the mean time I just have to grit my teeth and be amiable for enough social gatherings that no one looks at our house strangely. We’re one of three elven houses in the Free Marches, we cannot stand to lose face.  _Please_ , Evelyn. You’re the only one I can ask.”

Evelyn rubs her temple, “You are without a doubt one of my most complicated friends and most loyal. As much as my parents are absolute  _apish villiagos_  they are also fashion-mongers and braggarts. The house of Lavellan is one of the most prominent families with land and trade routes the rest of the Free Marches are aching to have. As much as they loathe anyone who isn’t Andrastian or human I think they’d have their greedy eyes set on your family’s wealth more. It might work. As long as you’re absolutely certain you can get your sister back.”

“I am,” Mahanon says, sighing in relief, “And about Rutherford…”

“I’ll write him immediately. He’ll understand, he is as loyal as you. We do not abandon our friends in need.”


	338. Chapter 338

"Well now," Maxwell muses, leaning against a tall marble table and snagging a flute of champagne from a passing server’s tray, “Isn’t this just  _gauche_? It’s only the first soiree of the season and they’ve already begun to talk.”

“To be fair,” Cullen says, feeling incredibly out of place in the second hand suit Maxwell had given him and helped him get tailored, “They are a very striking and controversial pair.”

“To be fair,” Maxwell rolls his eyes, mocking, “To be fair no one’s said a thing about the two of us coming and going from the dining club together and we’ve been going out for several months.”

“That’s different,” Cullen says, “And you go to several dozen private clubs with different people a month.”

“I’m very social,” Maxwell laughs, “Loosen up, Cullen. We both know it’s incredibly fake and we’re going to be in for the most entertaining party season this side of Ferelden since Sebastian Vael was courting both the elder Hawke siblings at once. Seriously, relax, enjoy the show. It’s only during the parties. You can return to coyly flirting with my cousin as soon as we walk out those doors and get into our carriages.”

Cullen’s stomach turns a tight knot. Of course he knows it’s a farce. All of their closest friends know it’s a farce.

It’s just -

He had always known that Evelyn would look wonderful next to someone of equal standing to her, and there she is arm and arm with Lord Mahanon Lavellan looking like a most wonderful couple. Even knowing what he does know, Cullen can’t help the small pang of jealousy and envy.

He has rarely wished to be a lord or any sort of titled peer. And the few times he has it’s always been about her.

“Honestly though, it’s barely an hour into the evening - we’ve not yet sat for the first course, in fact I’ve not even gotten through my first drink - and already you can see the rest of the lot fluttering about trying to manipulate this supposedly new status quo.” Maxwell shakes his head. “I’d be impressed if I weren’t so -  _oh_ , it’s about to begin. Rutherford look, it’s the dowager from Silver Spire. The shit starter.”

“You shouldn’t call her that out  _loud_ ,” Cullen says, eyes drawn to the rather large woman with eyes that make Cullen shiver with dread. It’s like she can  _sense_  a story. Something like hunting dogs set loose in a field. She looks exactly like one would imagine a shit starter would look like. “I can’t.”

Cullen turns towards the flower display on the table Maxwell is leaning against and steals the champagne out of Maxwell’s hand. Maxwell is making no attempt at disguising his open child-like glee at watching the dowager interact with his cousin and Mahanon.

Maxwell roughly pats at Cullen’s shoulder, “Rutherford, you have to see this. Please. Rutherford.  _Cullen_.”

“I will not,” Cullen says, “Just tell me when it’s over. I can’t. I just can’t look, Trevelyan. I think I might be having - what was it called? Second hand embarrassment?”

Mahanon is going to tear that woman apart.

“Ellana is like a gift who keeps on giving even when she’s not here. Best of luck to her and her man,” Maxwell says, “She’s coming back to a society that’s on the brink of extinction, I can feel it in my bones, Rutherford. It’s going to be a wonderful year. I might have to cancel that excursion to the Anderfels. I might miss something powerfully lovely.”

-

“Why are you here?” Herah says, double taking as she turns around and walks right back into the inn she had just checked out of. Ellana Lavellan,  _currently missing heir to the house of Lavellan, Protectors of the Frozen Fields,_  is lounging in the inn’s sitting room wearing clean riding leathers, looking quite hale and well, and also - most importantly - is presently several, several day’s ride away from her houses’s seat of power.

Herah stares at her, “Aren’t you - wait. You’re supposed to be - . No.”

She pulls over a chair and sits down right in front of her, “Ellana Lavellan, why the  _fuck_  are you lounging in the sitting room of an inn several days ride away from your estate one month before the official season kicks off?”

Herah is no noble. But she works with them and she is acquainted and familiar with several.

She knows the patterns of nobility and having the scion of one of the three Dalish houses of the Free Marches fucking about the middle of nowhere, seemingly alone, right before the kick off to the annual kick off of the routine parties and galas and visitations that occur every year without fail is profoundly out of place and worrisome.

Ellana beams at her, “I’ve eloped.”

Herah puts her head in her hands. “If I believed in god, I would curse them right now.”

Ellana laughs, “You aren’t even going to ask me if I’m lying to you?”

“What bastard do I have to kill to put out of their misery of being married to you? What poor soul have you tricked into matrimony?”

“Hey, Adaar, long time no see.”

Herah looks up and sees  _Cremisius Aclassi_ , Lieutenant of the Bull’s Chargers and has two very poor conclusions in her mind.

“Tell me,” Herah says, steepling her fingers as she looks at Ellana’s laughing eyes, “That it’s this one. Please. Tell me it’s this one. The good one. The tolerable one. The decent and dignified one. Tell me it’s this strapping young man right here and I won’t ask any questions, cast aspersions, or even  _say_  anything to anyone. This encounter can be over right now and I’ll walk away straight into a bottle of wine and Josephine’s arms.”

Ellana bats her eyelashes and says, “But Herah, you hate it when I lie to you.”

Herah groans.

Krem lightly pats Herah’s shoulder, “Sorry. I’d be honored, but no.”

“You married  _the Iron Bull_?” Herah hisses, keeping her voice as low as possible. As much as she wants to scream this out and maybe shake Ellana a bit to see if her brain jostles back into place, Herah also doesn’t want gossip going around more than it probably already is.

“Oh, no,” Ellana says, “I’ve just run off with him. You don’t know the story? It’s been about three weeks now, I would have thought all of our friends would know. I’ve already gotten letters from Evelyn and Mahanon and Kaaras and Edric and  _all_  of the Hawke’s, even their mother and uncle!”

“I’ve been traveling extensively,” Herah says, “I just crossed over from Nevarra about eight days ago.”

“Well,” Ellana says, “I’m sure if you’re going to Josephine she’ll have the full story for you there. Josephine is so much better at explaining things than me, plus you like her better. Frankly, everyone likes Josephine better. Josephine is a blessed woman who can do no wrong.”

“What am I bracing myself for?”

“A tale of intrigue, mystery, romance, and the sublime,” Ellana says.

“A story full of idiocy, bad decisions, open flames and oil spills, and the inevitable crashing hardness of reality,” Krem says.

Herah groans.


	339. Chapter 339

“Hello, can you call the lady of of the house and tell her I need her assistance?”

Surana hears a voice. It is a voice she hasn’t heard since she politely, but firmly, decided to tell all of society to fuck off and retreated back to her country manor to live out the rest of her life in  _peace_  after retiring from active service.

This voice, for all the years that have past since she last heard it, seems to only have gained more  _pep_ , more  _vibrance_ , and more ominous and foreboding  _joy_.

Surana turns around and considers going back to her quarters instead of heading to the kitchen to fetch herself a biscuit before afternoon tea is ready. But she is no coward and she is even less of a fool and she will not be made either in her own home. Not in this home she built with her own two hands, not after everything she’s gone through, not after prying it out of the hands of those who would deny her every rank and honor she’s sweat, bled, killed, maimed, tortured, and smiled prettily for.

“Is that Lady Lavellan?” Surana calls out as she climbs down the main stairs, “Send her to the olive salon, Margaret, and have Thrace bring out tea early. Do you take black tea, still?”

“Your many years living in the wilds hasn’t dulled you a single bit, Commander Surana. Yes, I prefer black tea. No cream. One sugar to taste. Thank you. And I’ll be having guests with me, Commander.”

Surana sighs, waving her hand as she looks upon the trouble that’s descended upon her doorstep on this - previously - wonderfully quiet day.

Surana’s eyebrows raise, “Did you get disowned and disinherited recently, Lady Lavellan?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

Surana takes in the motley crew of the  _Iron Bull’s Chargers_  behind Lavellan and wonders if Leliana didn’t write her about this upheaval on purpose.

“Then it is most likely done without your knowledge, I would pity your brother if I wasn’t of the mind that he could use a little more trouble in his life.”

“On that we are in agreement,” Lavellan says, “Shall we meet in the olive salon then? Olive as in the color, or olive as in the fruit? Vegetable? Oil?”

Surana walks in the opposite direction towards the servants quarters, rapping her knuckles on the wooden door.

“This is Surana. Fetch one of the stable hands or pages. I need a courier to ride out within the hour to Denerim.”

She hears the scramble of feet and young, cracking voices exclaiming,  _Yes, ma’am! Right away, ma’am!_

“To the green salon, when ready,” Surana says, turning back to go to the kitchen. Anything to delay the inevitable  _flurry_  of a  _narrative_  that Lady Lavellan is no doubt going to deposit on her. With every single unnecessary detail, most like.

Margaret is not yet in the kitchen when Surana gets there, unsurprising. Ellana Lavellan’s ability to drag someone into chatter is uncanny and frankly someone perturbing. She could convince stones to talk and birds to be silent if she put her mind to it. Fortunately she does not and the world’s collective sanity is just that much safer for the moment.

“Black tea, Thrace,” Surana says, sweeping into the kitchen and surveying the area, “Three pots.”

“Yes’m,” Thrace nods, calm and steady as a mountain as he focuses on something in the oven, “I heard from Lanie as she was running in with the wash. Ellana Lavellan, eh?”

Surana narrows her eyes at the man’s back, “Don’t set about spoiling her like the rest do.”

“That girl couldn’t be spoiled if she were covered in meat and left out in the sun for a week,” Thrace says. A way with words that one. “She’s just genuinely charming. It’s downright unnatural it is.”

“Well spoken, Thrace. She’s brought company.”

Thrace glances at her over his shoulder.

“Aye, she has. And is it true that it’s -  _him_? The one in all the rumors from the Anderfels to Rivain?”

Surana gives Thrace a mild look, “You shouldn’t fish, Thrace.”

“Apologize, ma’am,” Thrace says, “I’ll have the tea out shortly. If Margaret ever comes  _back_  that is.”

“Thank you, Thrace,” Surana says, “As always your work is much appreciated. And, Thrace?”

“Honey and the peach preserves for Lady Lavellan?” Thrace asks, “Yes, I recall. Eclectic girl, that one. But fine, fine taste.”

-

“You’ve somehow bagged us the biggest trouble in all of Southern Thedas,” Krem says, “Notorious, even.”

“Rude,” Ellana whispers as she mounts her stag, securing her cloak around her shoulders, “That is very, very rude and incredibly uncalled for.”

“Do  _you_  want to tell the future matriarch of the Lavellan family, protector of the Frozen Fields, that  _she can’t come with us_?” Bull says to Krem. “Because I’ve been trying to tell her that for the past  _thirty six hours_  and it hasn’t sunk in at  _all_. Go ahead. See if you can do better, Aclassi. I fucking dare you.”

“I, for one, am delighted by our new companion,” Dalish says.

“Of course you would be,” Stitches groans, pulling his hood up over his head, “I’m going to start living with a permanent headache because of this, you know.”

“Do you not want me?” Ellana says, looking particularly sad and lovely and altogether devastating.

Bull puts a hand over his face and groans.

“She’s  _good_ ,” Rocky chuckles. “I’m so glad you’re coming with us.”

“We are going to become the most wanted people in the Free Marches. A giant target on our backs. There goes all our subtlety.”

“You all make it sound like I’m a wanted criminal,” Ellana sniffs, “Wanted for  _murder_  or something.”

“They’re going to think we  _abducted you_ ,” Bull says, “Get off your stag and go back inside your house.”

“No,” Ellana says, “And they won’t because I’ve left my brother a note.”

“May I inquire the contents of this note?” Stitches asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.

“Ta for now, back eventually,” Ellana says, “Signed with a kiss. So he knows it’s me and not, say, I don’t know, his lover? Dorian would  _never_  sign with a kiss. It doesn’t do justice to the bow of his lip.”


	340. Chapter 340

“Have you read this?" Mahanon bursts out, sounding incredibly baffled and just this side of affronted as he waves a sachet of papers in Evelyn’s direction, “Unbelievable! The  _gall_  of her. I can’t believe we have the same  _parents_. At the rate she’s going I really  _will_  be the scion to the House of Lavellan for the rest of my  _life_. What did I do to make her  _do this to me_?”

“You’re being very dramatic,” Evelyn says, working on undoing her petticoats and getting out of the dress she had worn to dinner. “It’s alright, Flyssa.”

Flyssa cuts a narrow eyed look at Mahanon who’s reading over the letter with one hand and pouring himself some brandy with the other, muttering under his breath.

Evelyn touches Flyssa’s arm, “Really. He won’t do anything untoward.”

“Yes’m,” Flyssa mutters under her breath, returning to helping Evelyn puzzle her way out of the dozens of layers of lace and silk and frills that she had put on for the earlier dinner. Somehow it was easier getting it  _on_. And that was about an hour and a half of sweating and cursing.

Mahanon pours a second glass of brandy.

“I hope that’s for me,” Evelyn says.

“No, it’s for Flyssa for having to get you out of that disaster,” Mahanon says, and he  _does_  pour a third glass. “Did you read this?”

“You know I haven’t, it arrived while we were at dinner and I’ve been busy trying to find my legs and get my lungs working again,” Evelyn replies.

“I swear that there are easier ways to kill someone than this drawn out torture,” Mahanon says, scowling as he loosens his kravat and tosses it onto the table, gracefully folding himself down on the armchair by the fireplace. “Listen to this, Evelyn, my sister has the audacity to write to me and ask me  _if I’m having a hard time_. Am I having a  _hard time_? Evleyn.  _Evelyn_.”

“I see what Pavus likes in him,” Flyssa whispers and Evelyn covers her laugh with the palm of her hand, nodding to her as Mahanon continues.

“This being a  _hard time_  for me would be akin to saying our cousin’s riding accident that resulted in him losing  _a leg_  was  _bothersome_. She’s  _honestly asking me if this is a hard time_?”

There’s a knock on the door and Flyssa goes to answer it.

“Do you need help with that?” Mahanon asks, gesturing to the rest of the dress and other layers that are still on Evelyn’s body.

“Are you offering?” Evelyn asks, eyebrow raised.

“It’s Ser Rutherford and Lord Pavus, m’lord, m’lady,” Flyssa says. “They’ve brought provisions.”

“Excellent, I’m starving,” Evelyn says, sighing in relief as the two men enter the room - Cullen politely averting his eyes as he and Dorian set trays of food down on the table in front of the fireplace.

“Amatus, living up the life of a man besotted with a beautiful woman,” Dorian says, leaning on the arm of Mahanon’s chair, kissing Mahanon’s light hair and plucking the letter out of his hands, “And how’s our favorite heir to the house of Lavellan doing? Enjoying her freedom, I hope. Possibly getting bored of the countryside and getting ready to come back to society like the responsible woman we know she is when she’s not pretending to be otherwise?”

“I think she’s waiting for me to keel over first,” Mahanon says, sipping at his brandy.

Cullen sits with his back to Evelyn - ever so polite - as Flyssa and Evelyn shuffle over to stand behind a changing screen.

“We brought some of the left over finger foods,” Cullen says, “And fruit. We’ve also snagged an Abyssal Peach.”

“I heard the pages gossiping about a courier from Commander Surana’s keep delivering a message for you,” Dorian says, “I thought we might need it. If I had known you’d already have started the party without me, I would have refrained.”

“What does it say?” Cullen asks. Evelyn hears the sound of glasses and plates.

“She’s doing  _well_ ,” Dorian says, sounding delighted beyond measure, “She’s doing  _well_  and she says she’s growing on Surana.”

Cullen and Mahanon both snort. Cullen’s sounds a little painful like he swallowed his brandy - or his Peach Abyssal - down the wrong way. Mahanon’s sounds doubtful.

“There’s also a note from Surana,” Evelyn says, “Flyssa, where was it?”

“The writing desk, lady.”

She hears someone get up to get it and a short bark of laughter from Cullen, “She says  _get her out_. No signature.”

“That’s to be expected,” Dorian says, “Any news on the group of merry men and women she’s run off with?”

She’s almost out of this cursed dress as she listens to Mahanon and Dorian murmur softly, shuffling through the letter.

“I have never felt such powerful, powerful spite towards a living creature in my life,” Mahanon says after a period of silence. “ _She’s found a child_.”

“A what?” Evelyn and Flyssa exclaim.

“A  _child_?”

“She’s acquired a  _child_ ,” Mahanon repeats.

“Acquired, he says,” Dorian laughs fondly, “As one would acquire a book or a new pair of boots.”

“She’s acquired a child. The child is… _Carta_.”

“Andraste preserve us all, she’s going to return to society with a  _Carta backed child_  in tow?” Cullen says, “At least no one will think she was sent away. She wouldn’t be coming back from that with a grown child.”

“She’s nineteen,” Mahanon says, “She’s the heir to a Carta family, and according to this she’s precocious. Mythal have mercy, my sister calling someone precocious?”

Flyssa holds out a robe for Evelyn to put on over her shift and follows Evelyn out from behind the dressing screen.

“I am at once both incredibly intrigued and also afraid,” Evelyn says, smiling at Cullen when he hands her a small glass of wine. Mahanon stands and hands Flyssa the promised glass of bourbon. Flyssa gives him a small smile and retreats, taking her glass with her as she goes to tidy up Evelyn’s shed layers. “Any other news?”

“Oh let me,” Dorian says, clearing his throat as he dramatically holds up the letter, “The Iron Bull is a  _spy_.”

“He’s a  _what_  now?”

“This part is in code,” Mahanon says, “But she says that he’s a spy for the Qunari and that he’s alright with her telling me provided that she does so in a more subtle way than straight out and blunt.”

“They taught me their code a few years ago when there was that issue with that assassin,” Dorian explains. “It’s actually very complex. Fascinating really. Almost an entire language of its own.”

“She’s run off with a spy?” Cullen repeats, eyebrows raising.

“Oh it gets better. She’s run off with a spy and usurped his role over his own mercenary band,” Dorian says, “But you’d have to consider - this is Ellana Lavellan. Would you expect less?”


	341. Chapter 341

_The Charger_  is two days out from shore when Evelyn approaches him on the deck and says -

“I had a strange dream about your wife the other night.”

Honestly - Bull doesn’t even have to try that hard anymore. It’s like they hook themselves.

“As long as it stays a dream,” Bull replies, “Ellana doesn’t mind being the fantasy of such things, but she’d rather not have to participate in the act itself.”

Evelyn flushes bright red and punches him. He’s not sure what it says about her that it hurts a lot more than any hit he’s taken from her cousin, Maxwell, but he settles on being impressed and intrigued. You don’t often come across a mage who’s throwing a punch better than a former soldier turned sailor.

“Not that kind of dream, you ass,” Evelyn replies, face bright scarlet and shoulders pulled back.  “A mage-dream.”

“Is she alright?” Bull asks, because in all seriousness you shouldn’t ever ignore the words of a seer. Bull ignored Dalish once about six or seven years ago about a dream she had involving pineapples and their crew almost got shipwrecked  _twice_. It took them six months to get home and they didn’t get paid. Those were some lean times.

“I’m not sure,” Evelyn answers, frowning out towards the horizon, “It’s just - she’s very strange, isn’t she?”

“You’ve known her as long as me,” Bull says in response.

“Yes, it’s just that…” Evelyn pauses, frown pulling down at her eyebrows and thinning her lips as she focuses on the words. “She’s a sailor’s wife and yet she’s never been to sea. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her on the beach or even on the pier waiting for you; I’ve not even seen her go to market either. Does she even know how to swim?”

Bull does not know the answer to that.

“I don’t love her because of what she does or does not feel about the sea,” Bull points out, not unkindly. “We all have our weird shit.”

Bull is not an unobservant man. You do not live a life on the sea - or at least, you do not live it very long - being unobservant.

He met the woman who would become his friend, his companion, and then his wife when she came to the port town as a seamstress. She and Krem had fought over a skein of yarn. Ellana had, of course, won. This was not near the port, this was not near the shipyards, the docks, the sea. This was well within the city, higher up on the slopes, where the houses staggered in height and made mazes of cobblestone paths that wove with dirt and mud with shoots of grass pushing their way through stone.

He had asked her, of course, as they were getting to know each other well, if she would like to come out to sea with him.

She said no, and he did not ask further.

Later on, when they had known each other better, he had asked her to come to his house that he had bought years ago during a terrible season for sailing and he and his crew were sick and tired of being cooped up in a garrison-like inn with all the other sailors trapped at port, and the inn was sick of him and his crew and al the sailors trapped at port.

It is a modest house that stands right at the edge of where the middle city meets the lower, close to where all the sea working tradesmen and various buildings with interest in the waters begin to crop up with the more middle class and land working people.

Ellana had agreed and nothing else was said. For or against the proximity to the water.

And on the night of their wedding, alone in their room after the festivities had died down to drunk snoring in the main area of the house that they share, Ellana sat next to him on their bed side by side and said, “You can ask me to tend this house while you and your ship are gone. You can ask me to mind the business and check the books and keep the ledgers. You can ask me to stay and wait for you. And I will do all of these things gladly, because I want to and because I like  _you_. But do not ever ask me to follow you to the sea.”

He had asked her, then, “Do you not like the water?”

She kissed the exposed skin of his shoulder and at the angle he couldn’t see her face very well, so he did not know what that kiss was hiding on her moon-opened face.

“I do not hate the water,” She said. She did not sound like she was lying. But it wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

“Do not ask,” Ellana said. So he didn’t.

Oh, he’s talked to her about the water before. She doesn’t mind that. She likes to hear about the time he’s spent on the waves. She asks him about stories and adventures and hard lean times and she’s asked his crew and all of the other crews Bull knows about  _their_  adventures and time on the waves. And they’ve told her about the tricks they use to net fish and how they can tell storms and they’ve taught her their sailor’s knots and their songs.

But not once have any of them asked her - and gotten a proper answer - about what she thought of the sea.

That same year, he had given her the dragon’s tooth and Ellana had smiled and took both halves for a fortnight and returned his to him.

“Never be without it,” She said. “A part of you and a part of me.”

There is something strange about Ellana and the sea, he just doesn’t know what it is.

“Tell me about this dream of yours,” The Iron Bull says.

“A stormy ocean and a clash of waves,” Evelyn says, building the story like a storm; one wispy strand at a time. “A fleet of ships, scattered out of formation over dark and purple waters.””

“Navy? Pirates?”

“Not all flags were familiar to me,” Evelyn shakes her head, “But all the ships were floundering, out of favor with the water. And above - skyships at war, falling into the sea as well. And in the flashes of the clouds I saw shapes. Fighting. Arguing? One of them was Ellana, and she fell, struck by another. I do not know what this means. But it is something.”

“How did you know it was her?”

“The way you know things in dreams. You just  _do_.”


	342. Chapter 342

She is a sailor’s wife who does not go to the sea. This is an oddity. This does not escape her attention. Very few things do.

Worse still, she is the wife of a sailor who became the captain of his own ship and crew - known for not only escorting other ships but also picking up and delivering large, often notorious, payloads. And she still, for however many months they are gone, does not go to the sea to watch, wait, or welcome her husband’s ship home.

Ellana goes to the market and she knows how to judge a fish and she knows what is in season and when. Ellana knows how to read the skies from well a ways up the city slope, far from the actual coast behind the city’s walls and tide breakers and several terraced levels. Ellana knows the places sailors go to for business and to spend their hard earned coin.

But still.

She is a sailor’s wife and she does not go to the sea. This is strange. This is peculiar. This is worthy of talk and rumor.

This does not escape her attention. Or the Iron Bull’s. Very few things do.

Her husband - the man whom she has chosen above others as different and special to her in a way that meant she would be bound to him in a way unique to herself and herself alone - is not blind for all that he only possesses one eye.

But he is also a good man, for what his scars and his splotchy record would tell you. He is a good strong man with a good stout heart and a hale and hearty love.

He is a kind man. A gentle man.

He is a man who has suffered and knows not to push someone else when they do not want to be pushed not because it is unpleasant to do so but because it is an irreversible action that a person cannot recover from.

He has seen the edge of the abyss in himself and he knows how to see it in others.

Ellana has seen his hands shake. She heard his voice waver. She has felt his resolve shiver.

The Iron Bull, for all intents and purposes, is a kind man.

And because he is a kind man he does not ask her  _why_  she will not go to the sea, why she does not go to the ocean shores - not even to walk the edge of the beach along the stalls there where the fish are freshest and the goods pour in daily.

There are so many things about her that he does not push and Ellana loves him all the more for it. Because he can and he knows he probably should but he doesn’t because he knows the things it would do to her if he did.

She told him that she would not know him the way a husband and wife normally would. She could. If he asked. But if asked, she had said, her preference would be not at all. Or maybe, if not at all was not possible, only so rarely.

(The Iron Bull did not ask.)

She had told him that she would not go to see his ship or the cargo he brings on and off it - unless there was some way for him to bring either of those to her, in which case she would gladly look and poke and prod and examine to both their heart’s content. (Ellana is interested in his business, just not when that business is in the water.)

(The Iron Bull did not ask her to.)

And when he asked her why she hated the water, she told him that she did not  _hate_  the water, and not to follow that line of questions further.

(He did not.)

For here is a secret that Ellana keeps between the shell of her teeth and the muscle of her tongue.

If Ellana were to go to the sea and get so much as a drop of it on her person, she would surely - as the sun rises and falls, as the moon pushes and pulls at the tides, as storms come and go - die.

(You must not ask why.)

-

He knows that there are mysteries about his wife. But there are mysteries about himself, also, that he doesn’t really care to have exposed to the general public.

There are mysteries about half of his crew - one of them, being a mute who doesn’t speak but seems to have the bearing of a very noble person who probably shouldn’t be a sailor - and the various and sundry members of the other crews he knows and the people he does business with.

The world is comprised of mysteries, many of which are not meant to be solved or pried into.

His wife has secrets.

He, above most, has no right to judge someone for their secrets. He made a life out of them, once. He doesn’t anymore, but that is a mystery of its own for another time and place.

His wife has secrets. The Iron Bull does not begrudge her this. If it were another man or woman he thinks he would have guessed and he thinks he would be alright with it, maybe. It isn’t because this is a secret that lived in her long before they met and became what they are today. This is a secret that’s grown into her bones like coral, like ivy, like precious minerals in an ancient cavernous body.

It is not, he thinks, anything legally dubious because she has never shown any of the problems towards authority that most people who are in trouble - legally speaking - do. Of course she has her suspicions towards the city guard but most do anyway. Or at least those who pay attention.

(His wife always pays attention.)

But overall there is nothing alarming about her. He’s met her family when they’ve passed through the city. They are good, honest folk - more honest than he is, at the very least, which isn’t that hard to be - with kind and happy faces. Her brother’s face is not so much happy, but at the very least his scowl is not directed at the Iron Bull as much as it is Ellana for not telling him about her marriage sooner. Mahanon, overall, seems to approve of the Iron Bull and will send him the occasional letter.

Her family has secrets, all families do, but he does not think that they are particularly worrisome either.

His wife has secrets. Most people do.

If they are important for him to know, she will tell him. She’s told him many things already.

(He always pays attention.)

And if she does not want him to know, she will still tell him. She’s told him many times already.

(He does not ask further.)

And then the ocean shoots out of the night and grabs him by the throat - by his necklace. By his dragon’s tooth.

The ocean might demand many things from the people who sail upon her daily, but  _this he will not give_.

He goes under.

There is a glittering shine from the cord, the tooth, pulled taught even as he closes his hand around it and holds on tight.

 _Part of me and part of you_ , she had said.

Perhaps he should have asked her what part of her was in there. He did not.

He should have asked.


	343. Chapter 343

Ellana Lavellan, heir to the house of Lavellan, is sitting in their usual club like the past  _year_  hasn’t happened and everyone around her is doing her a very polite favor by not gossiping while staring, so much as they’re whispering behind their hands and turning towards  _Maxwell_  and gawking like  _he’s_  the one who’s done something incredibly outrageous and has to own up to it.

Ellana’s sitting in the armchair that she vacated over a year ago - she most likely scared off the pour soul who thought it was free now that it’s usual occupant has gone - with a fan that she’s lazily opening and closing in one hand and the pamphlet for the local theater group’s production of  _Hard in Hightown Act I_  in the other. She looks up at him and beams.

(Maxwell is only a little bit surprised that she hadn’t been kicked out. Even at her worst there’s no one willing to blacklist Ellana Lavellan. She’s just got too many connections. Maxwell is a little in love with her, but most people in their circle are.)

“Maxwell!” She calls out,  “It’s been  _ages_. Did you get blonder? All that  _sun_.”

Maxwell’s hair did catch a bit of blonde when he was spending time at de Fer’s summer house, and it is very impressive that Ellana caught it in this lighting, but it only proves that the scion of one of the only Dalish noble houses in the Free Marches is sharper than ever.

He wonders if anyone’s challenged her to a duel since her return. Obviously not, he would have heard about it. The news of that would have traveled across half the Marches within  _hours_  if it were true.

People have been snapping at the bit for anything about the infamous Ellana Lavellan for the past eleven months. They would’ve eaten that up like syrup.

“You look radiant and rambunctious as ever,” Maxwell says, bending down to kiss her cheek as he sits on the couch across from her, crossing his legs and holding out his hand. She gives him the pamphlet as she flags down a server. “Have you had dinner? And talking about sun, you look  positively glowing. I think you know what I’m going to be asking you.”

“We’ll talk about it over an aperitif,” Ellana says, turning her head up and quietly whispering her order into the server’s bent ear and slipping them two silver. “While we’re waiting for that have you seen this? I’m just newly back and I have to catch up on all of the things I’ve missed. Is this production good? I can always trust your judgement on productions, Maxwell. You’ve got such a flair for these things.”

“I’ve not yet seen it but Varric said to wait until the main actor quits. Apparently their main star is  _quite_  the diva and the understudy is  _much_  improved, but of course - seniority,” Maxwell replies, skimming down the back of the pamphlet. “Forget the drinks, start talking  _now_. You’re terrible. You wrote to everyone about your new beau but  _me.”_

 _“_ I did write to you, it’s not my fault that you’re always all over and your mail gets lost or damaged or otherwise,” Ellana rolls her eyes, taking the pamphlet back. She shifts in her seat, adjusting the fall of her suit jacket. There are three women that Maxwell knows who regularly, casually, and without any regard but with every bit of delightful grace, wears a suit that well.

“You could’ve invited me to run off with you.”

“You attract too much attention with your roguish good looks and charm,” Ellana replies flippantly, “Besides, what if they ended up liking you better than me?”

“Do tell me what parts they liked about you in detail,” Maxwell says, leaning forward, and playfully snagging at her skirt, “Ellana, please. I’ve loyally stood by you this entire year faithfully recording the trails and tribulations you made my cousin and your brother go through in  _excruciatingly_  minute detail, and you’re holding out on me? I thought we were the closest of bosom friends.”

Ellana snaps the fan closed and tosses it onto a nearby table, “Alright, come on. We’ll go to one of the private rooms. But you’re going to have to tell me  _all_ about whatever it is that’s going on with Lady Pentaghast. All I could get from Kaaras and Josephine was a lot of scribbled out words and angry ink blots.”

-

“I am absolutely  _furious_  with you,” Mahanon hisses, snagging Ellana by the elbow and dragging her into their mother’s favorite sitting room - unoccupied because Mother is currently crying tears of joy as she orders servants to prepare a celebration for Ellana’s return. “If it didn’t mean I’d be stuck being the actual heir to the house I’d wring your neck and I can promise no one would even  _fault me for it_.”

“But you helped me anyway,” Ellana kisses his cheek, “Besides, it wasn’t all bad. It got more of the pressure off of Dorian, Cullen and Evelyn somehow got  _closer_ , and society’s started to remember why they’re terrified of you and like me better.”

“They don’t like you better, they’re charmed by you into a false sense of security,” Mahanon retorts, pulling Ellana into a hug, closing his eyes as they hold onto each other. “You’re going to explain to me what exactly it is about this man that made you take leave of your senses and then you’re going to tell me what sort of hell you’re going to unleash now that you’re back without said man at your side. He’s coming back, I presume?”

“Of course he’s coming back, I’m building him a house,” Ellana replies.

Mahanon chokes. “You’re  _what_?”

“A garrison, really. The Iron Bull’s Chargers are going to be official defenders to the House of Lavellan,” Ellana says, pulling back and beaming at him. “The Iron Bull would hate being a noble and I’d hate to make him one. So he’s going to be in charge of securing our borders. You have to admit that our forces are somewhat lacking considering the terrain. And with you gone so often we do need someone to manage the more clandestine affairs of the house. I mean, I’m going to be very busy in the public eye, I don’t quite have the freedom to move as quietly as I once did. Mahanon you’re looking a touch faint. Should I call for some spirits?”

“It’s my turn to disappear for a year,” Mahaon says, “But unlike you I think I might not come back.”


	344. Chapter 344

Sweat gleams on the Iron Bull’s skin as his breath seems to echo and magnify in the heavy air around them.

He adjusts his grip on his sword, quickly checking around as the demons continue to come in, “Got anything for us, Ellana?”

“Working on it,” Ellana replies sharply, on her hands and knees with her familiar on her shoulder as she scratches something into the damp soil with a wand she pulled from her waist.

Evelyn snarls, hand outstretched with energy as she tries to bind the rift closed.

“It’s not  _working_ ,” Evelyn says, “ _Ellana, I need you_.”

“ _Working on it_ ,” Ellana snarls. Lanval caws out, feathers puffing up as he leans down and seems to whisper something into Ellana’s ear. “I know, I know.”

She scratches furiously into the dirt.

“You know, this is somehow much more unpleasant than usual,” Maxwell says, focusing on steadying himself as he recovers from deflecting a blast from a Sorrow Demon, “Did Rifts always make it so damned  _hot_?”

“If I had known,” Dorian says, “That this would be hot and muggy - instead of cold and windy - I would have possibly kept the components for  _cold spells_  handy  _instead of fire based ones_.”

“Of course it’s hot,” Ellana says, tucking her wand away again. Lanval spreads his wings, head raising back and  _freezing_  in place as his eyes glow. Ellana’s own eyes glow as she places her hands on the sigils and circles she had inscribed onto the ground. “You cannot consider the Rifts to be a singular effect of any sort. They will each be different and unique. The fact that all of the Rifts you’ve encountered so far were the same as some sort of lucky streak. Evelyn, get ready.”

Ellana begins to chant and whisper under her breath and the circle glows a bright, vibrant green, sending wisps of energy up her arms and into the air.

Evelyn throws her arm out in Ellana’s direction, a series of spell circles lighting up at her palm and fingertips as she also begins to chant her incantations.

Lanval’s wings arch up and seem to spread out, some sort of spreading darkness that halos Ellana’s head. Lanval lets out a single soundless  _nothing_. His beak opens, and a ripple of  _something_  extends over the field and Ellana’s circle blooms with power that rise up in strange shapes that resemble hands and faces and laughing smiles and insect wings and lustrous vines and fluttering dancing creatures with odd limbs and many eyes.

All of it seems to twist and braid itself in the air, suspended like a smoke cloud before getting sucked int Evelyn’s spell, traveling through her arm and out her other hand, channeled and modified into jagged pure energy that snaps around the Rift and  _squeezes_  it closed.

Bull swings his sword at a Rage demon that was stretching out for Ellana. The viscous make up of the demon absorbs most of the blow but Bull manages to push it back about four feet as he puts himself between the focused mage and the demon.

Stitches and Krem join up with Maxwell as they join ranks around Evelyn as she focuses on channeling and manipulating Ellana’s spell into her own.

The magic twists around the Rift, squeezing it and compacting it, cutting it off from the demons leaving them stranded and weakened. Finally the magic tightens itself closed and almost flat and seems to almost start stitching the space together.

“Now!” Evelyn yells and the rest of their party charges from the edges of the field - just out of the range of the Rift’s effects, to take down the demons left.

Evelyn and Ellana cut the spell at the same time and Lanval’s beak closes, wings snapping shut as Ellana pushes to her feet and runs, leaving room for the Iron Bull to deal with the truly infuriated Rage demon behind her.

As Ellana runs she turns and throws the remnants of the energy she had called over her shoulder, the glimmering white-green energy speckles over the Iron Bull’s back and seems to grow over him in a shimmering shield.

Lanval caws out, taking to the sky as Ellana spreads her hands - new spell circles lighting up at her fingertips and palms - and turns to focus on blocking the escape of the demons further out.

“If you had told me,” Ellana says, “More about this in your letter maybe I would be more prepared for setting the world to rights. You had me expecting dragons and grand battles and strange mysteries. As a final act of defiance I stole all of Solas’ ghost lanterns in preparation for such.”

“Or did he  _let_  you take them as a parting gift?” Dorian asks, falling back to back with her. “How are you holding up, darling? It’s your first fight away from your territory, yes?”

“It’s an experience, I’ve not cast spells outside of Solas’ domain since I was a wee little sprout,” Ellana says, “As another act of defiance I stole one of Skyhold’s original stones. So that helps.”

“I’m pretty sure,” Bull says as he wraps up with the rage demon, stabbing his sword through its torso and cracking its magical core, “That Skyhold put that in your care package before we left.”

“Your castle made you a care package?” Dorian asks.

“Skyhold loves me very, very much,” Ellana says, chin tilted up as she holds her arms out and raises the earth in huge mounds, blocking escape routs, “You’ve met my teacher, he’s such a  _bore_. What’s Skyhold going to do without me?”

“Can you imagine what  _we’d_  do without you, though?” Sera says as she dashes past, electricity sparking off of her skin as she draws her bow and lines a shot up, “You’re fuck all crazy for holing up in a  _living castle_  but all that crazy is doing great right now against the crazy asshole fucker.”

“As ever, you are so wonderfully colorful and evocative with your words, Sera,” Dorian muses.

Lanval lands on the Iron Bull’s head and caws out, “ _Crazy asshole fucker_.”


	345. Chapter 345

“What do you think?” Tallis asks as Hissrad sorts through the documents that their other spies have sent back to Seheron.

“I am ill suited for this mission,” Hissrad replies, “I’m better at toppling generals and gutting front lines rather than manipulating regimes.”

“You will not be assigned to this mission,” Tallis says, “The Viddasala want your opinion on who to send to assist in the enshrining of the new leader of the Dales. Your skill with assembling strike groups has not been overlooked.”

Hissrad runs his thumb over the paper and thinks, “How many?”

“The Viddasala in charge of communication with the Triumverate’s preferred leader was able to requisition approval for seven Tallis, a small contingent of Arvaaarad and saarebas, and half a dozen Ashaad. There will be no more Hissrads sent. There are not enough of them available and capable of handling this type of mission at this time. The Ariqun and Arishok are not willing to gamble on the Dales by diverting forces from the war with Tevinter.”

“But this candidate, the one the Viddasala have been communicating with, she shows promise?”

“Yes.”

“Who are the Tallis who have met her?”

“I am one,” Tallis says, “I am the one who wrote many of these reports on her. It is based on my judgement that the Viddasala request your assistance in picking who will go to her aide.”

“Tell me about her.”

The Tallis frowns, running a hand over the lower half of his face as he narrows his eyes in thought.

“She is obviously dangerous. But she is…honorable. And clever. She shows that she is a good leader and a capable fighter and tactician. Under her hand there is a potential for the Dales to reach heights it has not had for several ages.”

“And the Qun  _wants_  her in power?” Hissrad’s eyebrows raise.

He has other questions.

Why does the Triumvirate want the Dales  _strong_? Better for the Dales to be weak and fragmented, in its stagnant spiral of decline and isolated decadence as it is now than for it to become any more powerful. Even now, at what is arguably its worst stage of nation-hood the Dales are a formidable enemy. The Dales hold almost all of southern Thedas in check with the threat of cutting off access to food and building resources, as well as holding the key trade routes. A strong Dales could potentially give southern Thedas enough confidence and power to fuel a supporting onslaught with Tevinter against the Qun.

And what does this candidate have that the others do not? What is it about her that makes the Qun willingly send power to her?

He heard rumor from some of the other Ben-Hassrath that the Viddasala  _went to her_  in the Dales directly to broker this alliance.

What does the Qun have to gain? He doubts that the Dales would be willing to commit to a full alliance. The Dales’ borders are too far from Tevinter’s to be effective. They would have to carve through Fereldan, the Free Marches, and Antiva. As powerful as the armies of the Dales are, it wouldn’t last that entire pathway.

At best the Qun could only broker a promise of neutrality and impassivity.

“She has a charisma,” the Tallis answers, a wry twist to his mouth as he shrugs a shoulder, “If you met with her, heard her speak, you would understand, Hissrad. The Qun will do better with her in power over the Dales than any other of the candidates who scramble for the title of  _Heart_. Besides, she already has more success than the others. She has secured support from several noble houses, the Choir of Silence, the Blades, a large portion of the Emerald Knights, as well as the Ashen Ones, and the Shapers.”

“Impressive gathering,” Hissrad acknowledges. “Tell me what the Qun is meant to do for her, and I will think on who to send. I have not been recalled back to Par Vollen in some time, but I know of those still there. I will provide their digits.”

“Are you sure you do not wish to come, Hissrad? Your grasp of languages and ability to disarm with speech is recognized.”

“I have no interest in the Dales and the struggles of the south,” Hissrad replies, “I stay in Seheron.”

-

“And what is your plan for making sure the Choir of Silence does not mute your actions?” Mahanon asks, “You cannot have the entire Choir  _killed_.”

“I do not need to,” Ellana responds, “The Choir of Silence will fall in line with me. I have something they want.”

“And what is that?”

“A way to strengthen ties with the Ashen Ones,” Ellana answers, “The temple keepers of Sylaise and Falon’din have been at odds for the better part of the past age and a half. The Choir of Silence is torn between the two. In my silence I have listened and I have heard. I have  _seen_  and understood with clarity the rope that must be braided around their wrists to bind them once more. The Ashen Ones seek only that the bodies be sent to them first before they are prepared by the Black Wings. The Black Wings have held power over the dead because of a ruling found in the Sun Court because of struggles between two houses that have long been absorbed into other houses who no longer remember the strife. The Black Wings have been losing their touch and are panicked easily over new diseases.”

Mahanon’s lips press together, “And? We are an isolated peoples. We know our own diseases by now.”

“As I said. The world is moving with or without us,” Ellana says, “Signs of the Blight, brother, have begun to surface.”

“ _And_?”

“And you and I both know the texts. Even if we aren’t hit by the Blight there will be diseases, changes, plagues and pestilences both. The Ashen Ones have done research on all sorts of things through the samples collected from the Blades sent out through Thedas. They’re better prepared than the Black Wings for such an event.”

“And this has  _what_  to do with anything?”

“I’ve made contact with the Qun,” Ellana says. “Bring to me a list of names. I don’t care who they are or what they’ve done. I need bodies to send to the Black Wings. Bodies that the Black Wings won’t want but the Ashen Ones will. If I can reconcile these two factions I’ll have a third of the Powers on my side.”


	346. Chapter 346

“Listen, you don’t have to do this,” Bull says as Ellana firmly sits him down in the chair closest to the reception desk. “It’s grad season, you’re stupid busy.”

Ellana glares at him, the expression magnified and triplicated in the three mirrors in front of them; made all the more fearsome for the fact that the bags under said eyes without her make up on make it look like she’s some sort of theater villain.

Ellana begins to set up her shaving kit, and sharpens her razor ominously, “ _I want to do this for you_.I have given you a shave  _every week_  without fail for the past  _two years_. I have given you a shave for every event, occasion, fete, soiree, party, gala, ball, gathering, convention, congregation, celebration, meeting, and conference. I’m  _not going to stop now_.”

Bull doesn’t point out that she didn’t actually give him a shave last year around this time because she started and then collapsed just as she was about to start due to  _sleep deprivation_.

“You’ve got two other appointments waiting for you right now,” Bull says. “If you really, really want to do this it can wait.”

“ _I have given you a shave every week for the past two years_ ,” Ellana repeats, her glare could strip wood. “At exactly  _six am_  on the  _dot_  Monday morning in order to give you the  _crispest, freshest look_  to start your week.”

Ellana wields the straight razor like someone about to commit murder.

Meanwhile, Mahanon is fluttering between  _three different_  people set up further down in the salon while barking orders at the red-jacketed fleet of concierges, attendants, and other miscellaneous hotel staff that de Fer and Maxwell generously lent the salon during grad season.

Every year de Fer hosts the graduation for six of the top Circle Colleges throughout the entire continent. And for each school their salon has done a free service to six students, any speaking faculty member, any preeminent keynote speakers, and of course de Fer herself. The six students are the top two for the Circle, two applicants who win a raffle, and two that Ellana and Mahanon pick themselves.

And of course, being the stubborn people they are, they don’t hire extra hands so they rely entirely on extra hotel staff to run and get them things as well as do things like wash their towels and brushes, sweep, clean up trays, sterilize equipment and such.

You’d think that styling six plus people in the span of twelve is impossible, but de Fer’s resort is built on the idea of making the impossible possible. Anything for the guests.

This morning Bull had gotten up and went to shave himself because he’s a grown ass man and Ellana had stumbled out of bed just as he was about to start, screamed bloody fucking murder, and smacked his hand away from his face so hard that he swears his wrist is still tingling from the impact right now.

“I’m a grown ass man,” Bull had said to her as she glared at his razor and threw it in the garbage, “I can shave myself.”

Ellana had looked at him like he had just told her that he was both breaking up with her and also a serial killer.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ellana look so hurt and betrayed in her life, and that includes the time that Dorian went to another salon to get a hair cut and style.

(If Bull is remembering right, and he is, Mahanon had  _fainted_. They were about to call an ambulance because he wouldn’t wake up but he suddenly sat up, hissed like a feral cat, gave Dorian a very powerful glare, and stormed off.)

Ellana slides her palms over the sides of his face, gently brushing his skin with her thumbs and leans forward to kiss the back of his head.

“I can do this,” Ellana says, “For this, I will always make time.”

-

“What’s for lunch today?” Malika asks, poking her head into the back room of the salon where they normally sit their customers for longer treatments.

Mahanon glances up from the sink where he’s washing a woman’s hair, “I want milk tea with strawberry pudding and honey boba.”

“We don’t have that in the cafeteria. And that’s not lunch.”

“There’s a cafe two blocks down that has it. I’ve got cash. Ellana went to pick up pizza that we’ll be having for lunch and it’s in the opposite direction of the cafe, I’ll text her to ask for what she wants.”

“The Madame doesn’t like it when we bring food from outside establishments.”

“Then she should get pizza and milk tea with strawberry pudding and honey boba in the employee cafeteria,” Mahanon replies dryly, turning tot he woman he’s working on, “Ma’am, are you alright here? Do you need the neck rest adjusted? I’ll be right back.”

The woman signals a thumbs up at him, smiling as Mahanon nods at her, quickly wiping her hands.

Mahanon stops to check on a few other women on his way towards the front of the salon with Malika. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and starts texting his sister.

“I have a menu in the top left drawer of the front desk,” Mahanon says, waving Malika off. “She’s still there, do you want to go in for a pizza?”

“How many pizzas are you getting?”

“They’re the custom ones they fire for you. They’re not that big,” Mahanon says. 

“Cool,” Malika nods, “Wait, is this really a menu for a cafe? It’s like - a  _book_.”

“Ellana and I are there all the time,” Mahanon says, leaning against the desk, “She wants a rose black with sea salt. I’ll pay her part.”

“Everyone else is in the cafeteria, by the way,” Malika says. “Eating the cafeteria food that we get free of charge as employees.”

Mahanon rolls his eyes, “I’ll text them about the drinks, not the pizza. Ellana can’t carry that many by herself.”

“And I can carry two dozen drinks?”

“You’re a concierge in training,” Mahanon teases, ruffling her hair. “They have carry boxes so it’d be more like three things to carry not twelve. Bull wants lemonade with aloe vera because he’s boring. I’ll text you the orders, and I’ll pay for Bull’s part.”

“No pizza for Bull?”

“Have you seen the man? He’d need five just to get through the day without feeling faint. No pizza for Bull unless he picks it up himself.”


	347. Chapter 347

"Do not  _test_ me, little  _godling_ ,” Mahanon spits. Solas stands his ground and he can taste every bit of silver, gold, and bitter ash that glitters and strikes off of Mahanon’s skin with every word. Mahanon is so very good at holding it all back, mostly. Sometimes Solas can even forget, almost ignore, the sense of his  _otherworldliness._ His strange  _other_. “You will be found wanting. You will  _fail_.”

“Don’t go,” Solas says, pushing back and down at the thing inside of him that wants to snap back, that wants to snarl and bare its teeth and grow so many more teeth to lick and all the hundreds of eyes that want to open and glare and roll and narrow and weep. “Mahanon, please. Just trust that we can do this. Here.”

Mahanon laughs, and Solas’ shoulders tense because he can  _hear them_. The  _other_. The ones that linger underneath the earth, making strange the twists and turns of snatched light and glimmering sunset and gluttonous gloaming. Mahanon laughs and Solas hears the faint, tinkling chime of laughter from the leaves and the eaves of the house and the gnarled roots of the trees.

“You? Fix this?” Mahanon waves a hand towards Skyhold, “As you said you would since the start? You can fix nothing, little godling. I trust you with  _nothing_.”

“And you think that you can solve this on your own?” Solas challenges. “Do you not care for her any longer? Have you given up?”

Mahanon’s eyes do not belong to anything that was ever something that existed in this world. They belong on the things below, they belong on the faces of those creatures that make mockery of gods and spirits and the universe all the same.

“Care for her?” Mahanon repeats, “You ask me if I  _care for her? I go because I care for her_. I got to the place that I have sworn against, the place I clawed my way through for her. Do not dare to look down upon me for it, for going back to them for this. For her.  _Always for her and I do it without a second thought or a third or a fourth or even a first_.”

Mahanon’s voice is a hiss.

“You think yourself so powerful,  _dog_? Because you and yours are old magic? Born from sun and sky and ocean? Because you were birthed by the universe? Ha! I  _spit and bite my thumb at your universe_. So small and  _little_ ,” Mahanon sneers. “I have walked the darkness that existed before your universe. I have eaten their food, drunk their mead. I have sung their songs and danced at their galas. I’ve tasted their flesh and bathed in their ichor. I’ve walked their halls of silence and I’ve run through their doors of laughter. I’ve eaten their hearts straight out of their chests while looking into their eyes and I’ve made them feel fear and terror and dread and the impending coil of mortality. You think yourself  _powerful_? Old? Ancient? Don’t make me laugh, you pale skinned and feeble  _mewling child_.”

Solas feels his many eyes, ever multiplying. He feels his many mouths, ever yawning. He feels his many breaths, ever changing. And he feels his one heart, ever aching.

And he draws up every inch of wolf that he is and isn’t and should and shouldn’t be and he stands before this boy who was once mortal and turned, twisted, beyond his shape and stares him in the eye.

“They did all those things to you,” Solas says, “And you would go back to them. They cannot help you. They cannot help her. And even if they could do you think they would do it for  _free_? They would destroy her and turn her into  _you_. Is that what you want, Mahanon? Is that what you want for the sister you went through hell and back for?”

“I have seen the beginning of the world and the end of it,” Mahanon replies, calmly, “I have seen the dark, wordlessness of all things create your Sun and your Sky and your Ocean. And I watched as the three of them created  _you_. I know what you are made of. And you will need sterner stuff than that to bring my sister back to me. If it brings her back to me, I put my neck down on the thrones of the Gold and Silver Kings and I hold my palms out to the ashen ones and I commend my body to their dark purposes. Damn my pride everything that goes with it. I love my sister.”

“And what will it do to your sister, their magic?” Solas points out. “It turned you into  _this_. It changed you so immeasurably. You would have them do the same to her?”

Mahanon is silent.

“I love her,” Solas says, “I have raised her, cared for her as my own. She is not yours to take away. Just because you measure your love for her as greater - you are not the only one who  _loves_. Do not go, Mahanon. Stay. And let your sister remain here. Do not take her away from me. From us. You love her. You care for her. Don’t take her away from the ones who love her back.”

Mahanon’s face is a solemn and ancient thing that almost looks pitying.

“I cannot. You are the man who cared for and loved my sister in my parent’s place. You are the man who protected her and taught her and guided her. You are the man who has loved her as much as I. And because you are that man, who so desperately grieves for her - so much so that I can almost see a glimpse of myself in your gray shadowed mourning - I cannot make that promise.” The shadows around Mahanon seem to darken, deepen,  _breathe_.

Solas steps forward, holding his hand out to cast - something,  _anything_  - but the magic slides off of Mahanon like water.

“For my sister there is no price that I cannot and have not already paid,” Mahanon says, “Pray to your founding gods that this man of marble exists. And that you find him soon.”


	348. Chapter 348

Ellana kneels down in the cool early morning air, the sound of dead leaves and twigs snapping underneath her weight is crisp and loud and sharp edged in her ears.

The ground is cold as dampness starts to soak through the knees of her jeans. Ellana takes her gloves off and starts to dig her fingers into the earth, the damp, the floor of the forest. And it is cold. It is wet. It’s also dry in the way that dirt can be both at once.

Ellana digs deeper with her fingertips until she finds it.

 _Warmth_.

Heat.

Moist, wet, heat. Softness. Quivering, pliant, softness.

Ellana hooks her fingers in and she hears a loud squealing in the back of her head and it feels like the forest floor writhes and jerks and squirms under he knees.

She lets it squirm underneath her, she lets it squeal and keen and beg just because she can. Because she’s been made cruel by this place’s selfishness. Because she is no longer the nice, kind, sweet, caring person that first made her become this place’s latest and perhaps last guardian.

“I want their bones,” Ellana says, pulling her fingers out of the dirt. Her fingertips emerge muddy and dirty and pink-red with fresh, brilliant blood.

How strange that the earth here should bleed red when she, herself, no longer can bleed much of anything at all.

Ellana rises to her knees as she follows the trail the forest leads for her.

“You do not have to be cruel,” Solas says, a mere glimpse and glimmer in the corner of her eye from the refraction of morning light through bare and shuddering branches. “If you had asked, Skyhold would have given freely. They do not like them, either.”

“I didn’t do that to get Skyhold to tell me anything,” Ellana replies, “I did it because I can.”

Because there are parts of her that still aren’t sure where or what she is anymore. There are parts of her that still think that if she puts her hands in the ground there will only be dirt. Those parts break ceaselessly with the cruelty of the fiction she has become part of.

Solas’ kin were born on one side of Skyhold. And they chose to live and wreak some sort of havoc on the other side. But they were killed  _on_  Skyhold itself, then their souls banished back to the other side.

From what Ellana understands, they want to come back to Skyhold again. They want their bodies back, the remains of what they once were. And if they can get those back they can pass freely between again.

And so Ellana’s charge is to watch Skyhold, the boundary of worlds, and to make sure that these things never get a chance to do anything again.

Ellana is mostly fine with this.

She’s made her bargain and so far Skyhold has kept it rather well.

The Iron Bull and the rest of them should be arriving within a week or so. By the time of the other world.

By this one? She’s not so sure.

Either way, she needs to get herself together before they arrive.

And that includes understanding and preparing fully for the task she’s been charged with.

Skyhold presents part of one of the bodies to her in a ring of white almost glowing mushrooms, perfectly in the center.

“Cute,” Ellana mutters dryly, stepping into the ring and bending down to touch her fingers to the bone. Still warm. “Who’s is it?”

She looks up and around, but Solas’ ghost is no longer there. No answer from that.

Ellana turns back to the bone, stroking her finger over it. She swears she can feel it shiver under her touch, still alive with nerves and tendons and the like.

“Don’t worry,” Ellana says to the forest, to the trees and the sky and the bleeding dirt and the nervous castle and the bristling garden and the cavernous basement and all the things in between. “They won’t come back. They won’t find this.”

The world will keep Ellana away from what she wants?

Ellana can do the same right back.

-

The job and role of custodian of Skyhold is never ending. Even at night, when everyone is asleep, Ellana keeps her guard up.

Ellana wakes as Skyhold nudges her, upset by something - afraid of something - and Ellana rises from her bed, already missing the warmth of the body still asleep next to hers.

It’s strange.

She remembers that the Iron Bull was always very alert. He would wake and make sure things were alright before going back to sleep. He would wake at the slightest thing, it drove her crazy before because it woke  _her_  up too.

But now - maybe it’s because Skyhold retreats to that in between place at night, maybe it’s because the interior of Skyhold is always  _separate_  and different from the world she wants to go back to, the world of the Chargers and towns and people - he doesn’t. Maybe Skyhold keeps him asleep. Maybe Ellana and Ellana alone exists in this other Skyhold and they are just two planes intersecting into a simulacrum of convergence.

Perhaps Skyhold lied to her.

Ellana has no proof of any of these ideas, though.

So she stands up and follows the pull of Skyhold’s anxious shadows to the great windows of the ground floor hall that looks out into the back.

Figures press against the windows, distorted and looming and stretched out with their glowing eyes and their round, soft, pleading mouths.

“Get out,” Ellana says. She doesn’t need to scream it or shout it. She’s learned that.

Here, in Skyhold, Ellana does not need to scream. She does not need to shout. She does not need to holler or yell or screech for something.

Ellana just needs to whisper it. Mouth it.

And it will happen.

There is more force in Ellana’s gentle exhale than a hurricane.

The shadows disperse with a wailing shiver.

“I’m going back to sleep,” Ellana says to the castle. “Ignore them. They are less than memories.”


	349. Chapter 349

“What sort of evil debauchery have you  _done_  to yourselves?” Dorian gasps, flattening himself against the salon’s glass doors as he watches Mahanon blow drying his sister’s hair.

Her bright. Bright.  _Bleached_. Hair.

“I’ve gone blonde boys,” Ellana says, beaming, “My hair is  _fried_  but I’ve gone blonde and I look  _fabulous_.”

Mahanon’s dour expression somehow looks even more powerful with the  _dark black hair_  framing his face.

“Why?” Sera says, peering at them over Dorian’s arm as she texts Dagna and Harding and Dalish and Rocky and Krem and literally everyone they know. “Why did you do this?  _Why would you do this_? Do you know how we refer to the two of you as? The dark one. The light one. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?”

“The one with the tiddies,” Ellana says.

“The one with the ass,” Mahanon smirks.

“You take that back, we both have the same ass. We do the exact same work outs,” Ellana accuses.

Mahanon points the dryer right into her face and Ellana yelps, jerking back in the chair.

“Why did you do this?” Dorian says, “Why would you do this to me?  _You two look exactly the same from behind_. The hair is all that I had to tell the two of you apart when your backs are turned.”

“Mahanon said I could never pull of a blonde look,” Ellana says.

“Ellana said I could never go dark,” Mahanon says.

“ _You’re twins_ ,” Sera waves her hand as she snapchats them for her feed, “ _You just look like each other_. It’s the same damn thing.”

“I proved him wrong,” Ellana says at the same time Mahanon says, “But I proved her wrong though.”

Mahanon goes to aim the hair dryer in her face but Ellana quickly snatches up a spray bottle and spritzes him.

“You’re twins,” Dorian says, “You realize that you have mostly the same features.  _You both look the same_.”

“Untrue,” Ellana says, “I’ve got tits.”

“I’ve got a dick,” Mahanon says. “And the better bone structure.”

“You’re a big fat liar,” Ellana huffs. “But your nose is quite nice.”

“I know,” Mahanon says, “And now I’ve got the superior hair because yours is dead to the world. All that virgin hair, sister. It’s almost a shame.”

“It’s fine, we’ll do treatment on in in like, two weeks and start toning it back to brown or something. Oh, hey, now I can go  _rose gold_. Or  _pastel_. Why didn’t I do this sooner? The world is my oyster, my possibilities are endless.”

“Let’s work on getting your hair back to a quality that isn’t broken straw,” Mahanon says, “And we’ve got to work on my hair too. I don’t like it. I look amazing, but I hate it.”

“You look…so strange,” Dorian says, “I don’t know how I feel about this. You look so… _goth_.”

Ellana and Sera burst out into laughter as Mahanon scowls.

“No one says  _Ellana_  looks goth.”

“It’s something about the way you scowl at everything,” Sera says, “It screams hormonal teenager. Even though you’re like, what. Thirty?”

Mahanon rolls his eyes as he starts to put away his equipment and get ready for the day’s appointments.

Ellana goes to their shelf full of hair oils.

“How long did this take you?” Sera asks, grimacing as she touches the tips of Ellana’s hair and parts of them break off.

“Like, four days,” Ellana says.

“So as soon as Dorian left.”

“As soon as he was out the door,” Ellana confirms.

“What’d Bull think?”

“He said that my hair would be all over the place and it wouldn’t be anything different in hindsight. It’d just be weird seeing blonde hair bits instead of black,” Ellana replies.

“Your dude is one smooth customer,” Sera says, “Nice. Is your hair going to be okay? As, like, professional hair stylists, isn’t this a bad idea?”

“For a customer sure, but for us? To settle a bet? Not at all.”

-

“De Fer is mad,” Evelyn says, sitting down with her burger and salad next to Bull and Mahanon.

Bull morosely picks at a salad as Mahanon smugly pops fries into his mouth.

“De Fer is always mad,” Bull says.

“Pushing it around won’t make it any different,” Mahanon says to Bull, “It’s still going to be green and healthy and not these golden, golden spuds.”

“I don’t like you anymore,” Bull says.

“Don’t care, this is the highlight of my day,” Mahanon’s teeth flash as he pops another fry into this mouth.

“You sadistic shit,” Bull glares as he spears some lettuce and tomato onto his fork and starts eating. “I’m getting hungrier the more I eat, this is bullshit.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Evelyn asks.

“De Fer told Ellana that she was worried about Bull’s physical wellbeing,” Mahanon says, “So Ellana’s put him on a diet.”

“The word  _die_  is in diet, did you know that?” Bull says. “I’m dying. She’s even got the rest of them on it.  _Grim smacked a candy bar straight out of my hands_. What the fuck? I’m a grown man, I know how to take care of myself.”

Ellana’s seen Bull eat entire fly loaded deep dish pizzas like it’s nothing, she’s not exactly sure about the last part.

“A still growing man, maybe,” Krem says, sitting down across from Mahanon. “Nice salad, Chief. No dressing?”

Bull glares, “Ellana came by and took the dressing.”

Yikes.

“What’s de Fer mad about this time.” Mahanon asks.

“Someone wrote a bad review of us,” Evelyn answers, edging her burger away from Bull. She doesn’t want to make an enemy of Ellana Lavellan. Mahanon might be her best friend and Bull might be one of her work out buddies, but Ellana  _does her hair_.

She could, theoretically, switch to having Mahanon do her hair, but really she can’t. There’s just so much trust between her hair and Ellana’s hands.

“So? People do that all the time,” Krem points out.

“This one got all the way to the top of our reviews,” Evelyn says, “It’s one of the top reviews you find if you search us on the net.”

The three men grimace.

Evelyn isn’t sure if Bull’s grimacing because of the salad or the news, though.

“So what’s she going to do?” Krem asks.

“I don’t know, but she’s got Dorian, Malika, Max, Josephine, Leliana, and Herah in her office for an emergency conference. Max’s been sending me texts whenever he can. It’s not good.”

“It’s just one review,” Krem says.

“It’s  _de Fer_ ,” Mahanon says, and then stabs downwards with his fork. Bull barely pulls his hand back in time. “And if you think I’m going to let your diet get sabotaged think again.  _It’s my sister_. Go break your diet when I’m not present.”


	350. Chapter 350

“Are you insane? Mentally unwell? Suffering from sort of hysteria? Touched? Gone mad? Feeling unsteady?  _Anything_?” Theron asks, attempting to block Ellana’s way and quickly moving out of her way when she doesn’t stop her advance. “You want to go to the Conclave. The Conclave full of angry Andrastian Templars and Circle mages and  _Chantry clerics_. Not only do you want to go to this Conclave, but you want to use  _our forces_ , the Emerald Knights to enforce the peace of this meeting of  _very volatile enemies of the nation_.”

“You’ve about got it,” Lyna says, “About the chain of supplies for this, your grace, I have some ideas of how to keep our rations and necessary arms moving but I have my concerns about the welfare of the mounts as the terrain changes.”

“You’re going with this?” Theron gapes.

Lyna shrugs, “The other option, Theron, is to struggle against the will of the Heart of the People, which is unbreakable, unbendable, and unforgiving. Be as water, cousin, you will suffer much less pain that way.”

“I’d ask if the Crow is a good lay but even something like that wouldn’t sway you,” Theorn mutters.

Ellana shoots an annoyed look at him over her shoulder as she strides through the sunlit halls towards the pathways down to the stables.

“What  _did_  the Crow say to you? You seemed quite unwilling before,” Theron asks, “Humor me.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Mahanon says, startling Theron into jumping, magic briefly flaring at his fingers before dying down. Theron glares at Mahanon who smirks, falling in step with his sister. “Humor Mahariel leads to nothing but headaches. I have heard something very interesting.”

“Nothing new there,” Lyna muses, “Do share.”

“I heard from a little bird that the Heart of the People will not only be lending her authority to the Divine Justinia for this Conclave, but that she will also go in  _person_  to sit as arbiter for the peace talks.”

Mahanon’s gaze shifts to Ellana’s back, “I remember thinking as I learned of this that it must be exaggeration. Surely our most beloved Heart would not endanger herself, and therefore her entire people’s spirits, by putting herself in such a perilous situation.  _Surely_  our clever, wily, most blessed Heart meant that she would be sending emissaries to carry out her will for her.  _Of course_  she meant she would be sending others in her stead, representing her and the people’s will.  _Yes_?”

“No.”

Theron rubs the heel of his palm against his forehead and Mahanon’s jaw clenches. Lyna sighs, shaking her head.

“I will go in person,” Ellana says, “I will not leave what is most certainly going to be an event that will steer the course of history to interpretation. I will see and judge with my own eyes without the filter of someone’s reports. Mahanon, send word to our allies in the Qun. Lyna, begin gathering opinions from the people - if possible I want reports back from the Dalish outside our borders as well. Theron, start moving our people to generate approval with the councils and the temples. I will ride out to visit the Speakers of the temples personally. This is  _not_  up for debate or argument. I  _expect_  this to be done by the time I return. Do not disappoint.”

-

Lavellan stops walking, coming to a slow stop as she stands in front of the ancient ruins, staring up at the verdant green that’s grown over the temple.

“Hold,” She says, gesturing for the party to stop.

She stands there. And she just…stands.

“What?” Sera asks, “Never seen a temple before?”

“Not this one,” Lavellan replies. “It lies just beyond our borders. And Orlais has always been quite pleased to display the ruin of it. I can’t count how many attempts at restoration we’ve tried to ask Orlais for. All denied. You can see it from the water. Parts of it, at least. It is the closest my people have come to this temple since the fall of Arlathan.”

Her voice wavers. It shakes. It trickles like rain.

Bull’s mind grazes upon a memory from so long ago, a bit of rumor, a bit of news, a bit of facts.

“Dirthamen was yours,” He says.

“Yes,” Lavellan says.

Blackwall sits down on a broken stone wall - worn down so much by time and weather that it looks more like a rock that just happens to be there - and pulls out a small bit of wood for wittling.

Sera looks like she wants to say something - provoke, needle, push, pull, snag - but for once she swallows whatever it is and goes to explore some of the exterior ruins.

Bull takes his place just to Lavellan’s right, hands relaxed at his side, and he waits.

Lavellan’s face is turned up towards the structure like a flower, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so…open on her face. So sincere and unguarded.

Faith is not something hard for him to understand in people. People need something else. Sometimes it is a god. Sometimes it’s power or money. Sometime’s it’s a nation or a cause.

And yet, somehow, Bull didn’t think it went so deep in someone like Ellana Lavellan.

She was a member of the Choir of Silence before she stepped up to claim her title.

“Many of the original temples lie outside our borders,” Lavellan says. “We’ve created new ones near our capital as best as we could. But the originals - what was lost to us - we always dream. We always hope. We always mourn.”

“Do you need us to leave you alone for a bit?” Bull asks.

Lavellan shakes her head after a considering pause.

“No. I just need to take this in for a moment.” Her eyes close and he sees her lips move without sound.

He can hear Sera and Blackwall in the background while Lavellan does whatever it is she’s doing, and he turns his eye forward to the temple to give her some privacy.

Lavellan’s business is done quicker than Bull thought it would be and she begins to walk forward, calmly summoning her clear, shimmering blade in one hand as she snaps her finger in the other to create a light.

“Let’s get this finished. My heart cries for the place. I do not want to linger.”


	351. Chapter 351

“Well. That happened,” Maxwell says, “I didn’t know it was going to happen, but it happened. And now that it’s done happening I want  _all the details.”_

 _“_ I don’t believe you for a moment, Maxwell,” Evelyn jabs her finger into the non-metal parts of his armor. “Your dragon did  _not_  take part in this without you knowing.”

“I think you deeply overestimate just how much I understand of what is going through Dorian’s mind at any given moment, cousin,” Max holds his hands up placatingly and looks terribly earnest but Evelyn’s known him since they were three and she doesn’t believe any of it. Maxwell was always better at tricking the governesses and the tutors and the maids and the other staff about the house. “I was helping Malika and Herah scrub Kaaras’ scales. Go ask if you don’t believe me. There are witnesses. It’s rather embarrassing but Kaaras sneezed and his tail threw me about ten yards. I landed in a puddle.”

“I’m not asking if you were  _physically there with Dorian_ , Maxwell. I’m asking if you  _knew what he and my dragons were planning_.”

“And I’m telling you that I didn’t. Do you  _really_  think that if I knew I would have stayed behind and  _not_  been there to watch at least part of that unfold?”

He has a point there but Evelyn isn’t willing to relinquish her embarrassed fury just yet. She’d yell at her dragons but neither of them are remotely close to repentant about the entire ordeal and yelling at Bull is the most useless waste of breath.

“So. What happened? I noticed you and the Commander exchanging familiar looks, more familiar than usual. And  _without_  the embarrassed fluster of breaking eye contact once you two realize what you’re doing.”

Evelyn feels a touch of heat at the back of her neck and the tips of her ears, she grabs Maxwell’s arm and starts to drag him towards one of the unused towers. There aren’t as many anymore, now that Skyhold is getting fuller and repairs are starting to extend to the non-vital areas of Skyhold, but there are one or two places left for privacy. Not even a nosy dragon can poke their head in to some of them.

“They dropped us in the middle of a field and didn’t leave us alone until we…talked,” Evelyn says once she’s certain that they’re alone.

“Talked? That’s  _it_?”

“And…held hands.”

“I don’t know if this is a milestone or a let down, considering the both of you. On one hand the sheer  _tension_  between the two of you - on the other hand. Should I have expected any more? You two move at the pace of glaciers.”

“Shut up, Max.”

“Shutting up.”

“It was  _implied_  that the Iron Bull was of the opinion that we should…be going  _farther along_.”

Maxwell’s mouth cracks into a grin and Evelyn glares at him until he mimes zipping his mouth shut.

“Ellana disagreed and simply wanted the two of us to…be close,” Evelyn shifts her weight from foot to foot, “We were there for about two hours? Maybe three. But the entire ordeal was…confusing and I’m very conflicted about the fact that our dragons were plotting against me.”

“Were they really plotting against you? Or just…nudging you along? What did the two of you talk about?”

“Max, I’m not here to gossip with you, I’m here to tell you to get Dorian under control.”

“For all you know it was  _your_  dragons who put him up to it, so really you should get  _your_  dragons under control.”

“Dorian is much more likely to listen to you than my dragons listening to  _me_.”

-

"You have to share,” Evelyn stresses as Ellana and Mahanon flop around the cavern they found in the mountain of Skyhold. There are an amazing amount of caverns and tunnels and caves throughout the mountain connected to the castle’s undercroft and basement levels. Perhaps one of the previous owners also had a flight or two of dragons roosting here.

Ellana and Mahanon raise their heads and start clicking at each other and Evelyn, tails lashing in and out of the water as they happily frolic.

Evelyn didn’t realize her dragons were so deprived. She feels a bit bad about it, honestly. She does remember Solas, briefly, telling her that her dragons were aquatic, hence the fins and spines used for sensing, the constant clicking, and the way their wings are attached to their bodies. But the two had been quite happy on firm land and did well enough in forests.

But now, seeing them play around in the spring they had found, splashing each other and just running their scales against wet rock, Evelyn feels bad she hadn’t thought of getting them something similar enough in Haven. They could have just cracked open a portion of the icy lake in front of the village and built a rudimentary structure, if anything.

“I mean it,” Evelyn says, “We don’t know what other sorts of dragons will be joining the Inquisition once we start making firm alliances. If one of them also happens to like this cavern you’ll have to share.”

Ellana flops onto her back, hind legs in the air, claws curled looking like a very long, shiny cat as she soaks in the water. Mahanon sprawls next to her, tail flicking Ellana’s face causing the dragon to snap at him.

“You’re not listening are you?”

Evelyn walks into the shallows, carefully feeling out the wet floor until she gets a hand on Ellana’s neck and starts scratching under her chin. The dragon’s tail and toes curl as she purrs happily.

“You big babies,” Evelyn says. “Alright. Come on. We have to find where the others have roosted.”

Mahanon gets up, raises his claw and starts scratching at the stone walls. Ellana gets up - pulling Evelyn along with her - and starts scratching also, arching her back and spines against the wall, rubbing.

“Are you marking your territory?” Evelyn asks, incredulous.

Mahanon and Ellana rumble together. Evelyn rolls her eyes.

She raises her hand, heating it with magic, and presses her hand against the wall, burning her palm against the stone.

“There. Now everyone will know for sure. Let’s  _go_. I think I saw Bull and his flight claiming a nice roost towards the outside of the mountain. It’s got a nice sunny view. Don’t you want to fight him for it?”


	352. Chapter 352

“This is stupid,” Ellana says, scowling as she flicks through profiles on her phone, “I don’t need to  _date_. And if I did I don’t think I’d be using an  _app_  for it.”

“You’ve become a recluse and that cannot happen because only  _one_  of us can be a recluse and I’d rather throw myself onto witch-fire than lose my position as the recluse of the family,” Mahanon says, “You need to get out of the house. And there’s no  _app_  for making  _friends_ , just an app for dating.”

“I don’t want to date.”

“Then don’t date. All of the people who’ve ever hit on you turned into friends for you anyway and you never dated any of them,” Mahanon says, “Look. Sister. Darling. Dearest annoyance, the poisoned apple in my throat, my rotting peach, my corpse flower. I love you very, very much. And if it comes to it I’ll spend the rest of my life with you as we scare the children on the block in our big ominous house. But we  _can’t both_  be social recluses because that’s how you get mobs with torches and pitchforks and pamphlets on converting to Andrastian based religions. I’m not here for it. Just take a look at some people.”

Ellana scowls harder as she viciously swipes several profiles away into a garbage bin icon.

“Well. For one thing, this one has a profile picture of himself and the most miserable looking bird I’ve ever seen, so no. And this one looks like they have horn  _implants_  which is also  _no. And this one_ says that they study in the school of astrology which is bullshit because everyone knows that astrology isn’t a school, it’s a  _persuasion_.”

Mahanon rolls his eyes.

“We need to reset the filters on this thing, give it to me,” Mahanon takes her phone, “Alright. What  _don’t_  you want in a potential friend?”

“Bigotry. Racism. Sexism. To start with.”

“Alright, but anything I can put into filters?”

Ellana sighs, slouching down and reaching her hand out to make clicking noises at the three eyed raven that’s been hanging around their house a lot. She’s starting to get it to like her, mainly through treats of french fry bits, broken off fire-salamander tails, and the odd bit of scrap meat harvested from the bowels of the house. It has a preference for boiler meat.

“I don’t know, I don’t have preferences for friends,” Ellana says, “Why can’t we  _both_  be social recluses, Mahanon?”

“Because one of us has to make nice with the community and if you think that’s going to be me I’m going to have to write to mother and father that you’ve gone off it and then they’ll have to make the trip all the way back through the Gates and you know that paperwork is going to be awful. And then we’d have to host a welcome back to life party and that means we’d have to invite the ghosts, specters, poltergeists, shades, wisps, memories, memorandums, survivors, remembered by’s, and miscellaneous acquaintances of the rest of the family - not even  _considering_  the other various people who would be terribly slighted if we  _didn’t_  invite them - and I would want to, literally, die forever.”

Ellana groans.

“Alright, look. Here. I’ve put in some filters. No one currently in school - so that’s some sort of age bracket, and also it should filter out all of those… _philosophy majors_. Absolutely no ifriti because the last time didn’t go so well and I don’t think Vanessa has forgiven either of us yet.”

“Oh, she definitely hasn’t,” Ellana says, lifting her leg and pulling up her pant leg to show Mahanon the thick bruising in the shape of a vine going around her calf, “She tried to toss me into Teddy’s swamp a few days ago. Lucky I landed  _on_  Teddy instead. Teddy was quite confused about the whole thing and lucky I didn’t drop my phone into the water.”

“Right, so for now no ifriti until Vanessa’s gotten out of her tangle,” Mahanon nods. “Alright. Let me just - for my own peace of mind, no one of the spectral or physic sort. I just - let’s just not go down that path for your first foray into this app.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Alright. Okay, let’s see - here we go.”

“This is stupid,” Ellana says.

Mahanon hands her the phone, “This is  _hot_.”

Ellana rolls her eyes, “If I wanted hot I’d ask Evelyn to light her hands on fire for me so I could roast some corn or something. I don’t know what you’re expecting me to -  _oh. That’s hot_.”

Mahanon grins.

Ellana blinks at her phone and turns to Mahanon, “Why didn’t I join a supernatural dating site sooner? Mahanon, brother, dearest, darling worm, I need to air out my good clothes. Will you help me convince my wardrobe to surrender with minimal casualty?”

-

“I don’t need an app to get laid,” Bull says.

“Ok, but what about we field these things so you don’t get  _cursed_  like last time? At least this way there’s like, a chance of us being able to track down whoever it is you piss off to make amends,” Krem says. “Listen, just - you’re going to get dates. You’re probably going to get laid. Using a website just makes it easier for us to keep track just in case because the last time you picked someone up at a bar they got mad and  _cursed Dalish_  into the form of a duck. She still quacks in her sleep.”

Bull rolls his eyes, “Right. Sure. Alright, how does this work?”

“We made your profile for you already. You just need to pick from your top matches once we put in some filters. So. What do you want or not want in a date?”

“No STD’s.”

“That’s not a filter.”

“It should be. No ghosts. No spirits. No demons.”

“Alright, fair enough.”

“No one from any cults.”

“A little harder to filter but I think I can work that into search terms. Okay, let’s see. Oh, hey.” Krem turns Bull’s phone towards Skinner. “What do you think?”

Skinner whistles, eyebrows raising and she waves over Grim and Stitches who lean over her shoulder, looking from the phone to Bull and back again.

“Nice,” Stitches says, “You’re in for a wild ride, Chief.”

“Gimme that,” Bull says.

The four of them give the shittiest grin as they pass the phone over to him.

Bull blinks at the phone.

“Interesting.”

“You’re going on the date.”

“I’m going on the date.”


	353. Chapter 353

If at one point Evelyn was ever afraid of heights, she would surely be cured of such a problem by now.

There is nothing that can touch her dragons when they’re in the air and by that extension there’s nothing that can touch Evelyn when she’s on her dragons in the air.

The ripple of Ellana’s muscles underneath her is a steady reassurance, even as Evelyn’s heart beats hot and fast in her palms and her throat.

She can see Mahanon out of the corner of her eye, a few yards lower and towards the right as they glide over the cooling desert night air towards Adamant.

Above them Evelyn can no longer make out the outline of Bull’s colossal form. At this point he must have risen very high to no longer be seen and to be out of range for the anti-dragon weapons mounted on Adamant.

Evelyn leans down along Ellana’s sinuous body and closes her eyes. Each flap of Ellana’s long arms ripples the wing membranes that go all the way down her body, the tips of her smallest fore-claw down to the fine, fine tip of her tail. Like a ribbon in the sky.

“Don’t let them bite you,” Evelyn says, knowing her dragon’s and their sensitive hearing will know she’s talking to them.

The Wardens have a very few dragons. Dragons may have some sort of higher immunity towards the Taint, but it isn’t perfect. Even if they aren’t High Dragons, getting one infected is a bad idea.

Evelyn opens her eyes, the sound of something loud coming towards them and the feeling of Ellana’s spines hardening and beginning to rise pushing her pulse up into her gums.

She tenses, loosening herself out of Ellana’s straps and as Ellana begins to tilt back in the air, rearing to breath out toxic fumes, she springs off of Ellana’s twisting back and enters her fall.

If she was ever afraid of heights - Evelyn’s fears have always been much more concrete and present: spiders and their many eyes that remind her of the demons in the Fade that always taunt and mock her, the demons of the Fade themselves, Darkspawn and that needs to explanation, and centipedes with their dozens of legs that make her skin crawl just at the thought. - it has been overwritten with a fear of the fall.

Because as much as she trusts her dragons, there is always a moment - a second or less - of gut-wrenching fear and terror that  _they won’t catch her_. That there will be nothing to stop her fall and nothing to slow her descent and no way out.

And then a flash of glimmering white and she curls and braces herself and Mahanon’s hind claws curl around her sharply and surely and Evelyn breathes out a loud pounding sigh of relief as she quickly climbs up onto his back.

Less than ten seconds.

Evelyn looks up and hears the signature clicking of Ellana preparing to unleash something nasty and against the flash of the lightning that spills from her mouth she sees above them - higher in the clouds - the silhouette of larger dragons locked in battle. The Iron Bull’s large form is a dangerous and ominous arc against the sky as the roars begin.

And down below she hears the horns.

Evelyn turns her gaze forward, towards the fortress as torches are lit, as each army comes to light. As the silhouettes of dragons take shape, Evelyn pushes her hearing out from the focus of her heart and hears the yelling of voices below.

Mahanon rumbles low and also begins to make the clicking sound Ellana was making.

“Should we announce ourselves?” Evelyn asks, raising her hand up into the air and focusing on the Anchor.

Mahanon snarls out as he swoops down and unleashes a loud, furious stream of electricity as Evelyn’s Anchor bursts into the sky.

Below them the sound of dragons taking off and above them the sound of dragons bellowing.

Adamant falls tonight.

-

“Don’t you think that’s enough fish?” Evelyn asks as she watches Ellana deposit several dozen more fish in an already large pile. The delicacy with which these fish are placed isn’t lost on her.

Ellana sits on her haunches, fore claws playing with the tip fo her tail as she croons to herself softly and inspects her pile.

Mahanon lands on the grass next to her, shaking out the water off of his spines, tilting his head as he looks at Ellana’s pile of fish.

He reaches out towards it and Ellana smacks his claw. Mahanon looks at Ellana and back to the pile of fish and makes an annoyed churrup.

“It’s a lot of fish, Ellana,” Evelyn says. “You could share.”

Ellana shakes her head and starts to arrange fish on the pile. It’s a lot of delicacy involved considering that most of these fish are smaller than her  _eye_.

“What are these even for?” Evelyn asks as Mahanon chuffs to himself, turns around and takes off again. Presumably to find his own fish.

Ellana twists her head around and up and makes a happy squawk - Evelyn swears that her dragons are just hairless  _birds_  - and Evelyn shades her eyes as the Iron Bull starts his slow descent. He’s - carrying something?

Evelyn gapes as he grows closer and gently lays down next to Ellana’s pile a very large, still alive sea dragon. Juvenile, but then again Evelyn didn’t think they  _existed_.

Bull’s large jaws are still lightly clamped around the thing’s neck and slowly, carefully, they start to close tight. Evelyn hears the very distinct crunching and cracking and gurgling of the neck being snapped as blood starts to flow.

Ellana raises her claws over her nose and her tail whisks back and forth.

Bull lets the weight drop to the ground completely and inspects the pile of fish, humming.

“Oh my god, it’s a courtship thing,” Evelyn says.

Both dragons look at her like she’s  _stupid_  and she probably is for missing it.

“Carry on,” Evelyn waves her hand and walks away quickly. “I’m going to go sit on a rock and wallow in embarrassment or something. Call me when you’re done being sweet on each other.”


	354. Chapter 354

Ellana can smell the beginning buds of rumors in the air. They smell like burning candles, powder and perfume, and an unfortunate mix of spring dampness mixed with soup.

Ellana smiles as she’s seated at the table, winking at Maxwell who pointedly looks away and coughs into his wrist politely to hide his grin.

“Margrave Aeris, you look as radiantly sun-kissed as always.” It’s always best to open with an obvious insult, Ellana thinks, just to get the ball rolling. This way things might be out in the open properly by the aperitif and then she can really enjoy her food without thinking up witty repartee. “Thank you so much for the invitation, it’s been a while since I’ve been about I was worried I’d never get back into it.”

“You’ve been missed, Lady Lavellan. Your brother is not nearly as fine as company as you. Though he is  _very_  fine,” Marian winks at Lavellan from her place a few seats down at the table. “He’s not one for dinner parties, is he?”

“Not at all, he’s very good at expedition,” Ellana replies, “I imagine he got on with Lady Bethany most wondrously.”

“To the chagrin of Carver, you’re definitely correct,” Marian grins.

“You  _have_  been missed,” Margrave Aeris says from the head of the table, clearing her throat, “We were told that you were in retreat. We had been hoping for an introduction with the lucky man.”

There is no doubt at all in Ellana’s mind that if she were seated close enough Maxwell or Marian would be frantically kicking her under the table. Maxwell, probably, to stop her from saying something antagonizing, Marian, definitely, to egg her on.

Ellana beams as the staff begin to ladle out soup - some sort of chicken based affair, by the smell of it - and replies, “But, my dear Margrave, you’ve  _met_  him already. In fact you gave him such  _stunning_  review that I couldn’t help but have him too. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten him already? You gave such a thorough recommendation and everything.”

Maxwell’s face is doing some sort of uncontrollable spasm between a manic grin and a gape. Marian’s glee is undisguised and completely unabashed.

The other guests around the table look torn between incredibly intrigued and horrified for their own reputations, no doubt wondering about what sort of things she’s heard about their… _employment_  history with the Iron Bull.

“I didn't realize you wanted to see him,” Ellana says, “Unfortunately he didn’t want to see  _you_ , so here I am. All by my lonesome. And in retreat? Hardly. We were incredibly  _active_.”

Margrave Aeris flushes beautifully and Ellana thinks that maybe Mahanon was right about her being a touch sadistic after all. But then again, Ellana and Aeris haven’t gotten along since their debuts and even then it was iffy. Aeris always had such a ridiculously high opinion of Ansburg.

A back water is a back water no matter how you label it. Somehow the entirety of the Green Dales is more in touch with society than Ansburg is.

Ellana turns to her seat mate - a Serah Thorne, from Markham if she’s recalling correctly - “Enough about me. Serah  _Thorne_ , it’s been forever since we last spoke. Last I had heard you were pursuing theater in university, and my how you’ve grown. Do tell me  _all_  about it. As much as I’ve been absent I  _did_  hear about your engagement to our dear Aeris’ neice. How did that happy match come about, hm?”

-

“You’re sulking.”

“No I am most certainly not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re definitely sulking,” Bull says, sitting down next to Ellana on the damp ground as she pouts off into the morning. “I told you that you wouldn’t like coming with me.”

Ellana huffs and turns her head away from him. “If you think any hypothetical sulking I’m doing - which I’m not - is about me coming with you then you’re being particularly obtuse with me and I don’t appreciate it at all.”

“Ellana, go  _home_ ,” Bull says. “You’ll be happier.”

“And how do you know that?” Ellana gives him a dark look, “Why do you think I’d be happier back in the Fields rather than here with you?”

“Because you’re not happy  _now_.”

“Untrue,” Ellana huffs.

“You’re sulking.”

“What a circular argument you have, based on unfounded accusations,” Ellana sniffs, turning away from him once more. “You could ask me what’s wrong, instead of just  _assuming_.”

“What’s wrong?”

Ellana doesn’t answer him, though and Bull sighs.

“I miss you,” Ellana says finally, just as Bull’s about to give up.

“I’m right here.”

“But you’re not  _you_ ,” Ellana says softly. “Back at the Fields - a few weeks ago. You were different. You  _liked_  me, then.”

“I like you plenty.”

“You loved me,” Ellana says, voice frightfully small and unsure. “You smiled and laughed and you were happy. We talked. We talked about all sorts of things and we had all kinds of adventures and you said you were sad to leave so I came with you.”

Ellana’s thin fingers curl into the fabric of her coat.

Bull’s stomach swoops out of his body and he feels like a piece of shit right here.

“But now you  _aren’t_  happy and you  _aren’t_  smiling and laughing and you  _aren’t_  talking to me at all really, unless it’s to tell me to go away and how much I don’t belong here. And now I feel very unsure of myself.” Ellana isn’t crying, small mercies, but Bull is pretty damn sure that his chest would be breaking open either way. “Everyone else says that you’re just being an ass about it and that you  _do_  like me and that you  _do_  want me around, it’s just that you have this silly idea of what you can and can’t have in your head and I agreed too but it’s been  _two weeks_  and not  _once_  have you looked at me and - “

“ _Ellana_ ,” Bull’s hand closes around her arm and she turns to face him, eyes and nose red and lower lip wobbling in a way that spells serious and terrible things. “I want you here.”

Ellana lets out such a broken sigh of relief that Bull’s chest feels like it’s being cracked by a hammer.

“Then  _why_  are you so  _miserable_  with me?” Ellana asks.

“Because you don’t belong with me,” Bull says, “You belong in your nice castle with your parents and your brother and your hunting dogs and your stables and gardens with your friends and your parties and your furs and your jewels.”

“Says who?”

“Says the rest of the world,” Bull says. “Listen. If things were different I’d be fucking over the damn moons - both of them - to have you here. But you have responsibilities. You have  _people_. And you have a name to go with your face that’s going to follow you forever. And it’s not the kind of name that should be dragged through shit because you ran off with a bunch of mercenaries.”

Ellana quickly wipes the heel of her hand across her eyes.

“I’m not leaving them  _forever_. I’m going  _back_. My brother would have our house in tatters if I left forever.”

Bull’s hand slowly eases its grip on her arm, a knot of disappointment and desire and understanding and bitter satisfaction binding his chest together.

“And I’m going to bring you  _with me_ ,” Ellana continues, eyes fierce as she stares up at him. “Don’t think for a moment that this is an  _this or that_  situation, the Iron Bull. I  _love you_  and I know that you care for me as well. This world is short enough on love and I will not give a single  _drop_  of what we have to feed that drought.”


	355. Chapter 355

One would think that the Inquisition, with its greater numbers of both ground and aerial forces, would be at an obvious advantage to Adamant Fortress.

Perhaps it would be true if Adamant was a fortress of an army, of rebels, of Venatori, or even just regular demons. But Adamant is a Warden Fortress.

The fact that Adamant is the one under siege from all sides and not an Inquisition stronghold just levels the playing field.

Inquisition dragons can’t land near the fortress or inside of it. Their dragons can’t bite at other dragons or Wardens and they can only use their breath against other dragons in the air. The dragons can’t attack the fortress itself due to the short range anti-dragon weapons, nor can they provide aerial support from out of range of those weapons.

Once Inquisition troops enter that fortress there is no way for the dragons to guide their attacks between friend and foe. And there’s no room for them to land, even once the anti-dragon weapons are disabled.

“Stay safe,” Evelyn yells to her dragons as they swoop over the fortress, just out of range of the anti-dragon weapons. They had laid down some acid and lightning against the fortress walls but had to retreat as Inquisition siege machines came into range. They did some damage, but not enough.

The scales on both dragons rattle as they bring her as close as they can to the walls and Evelyn jumps, preparing a shield spell and several force spells to dampen the impact as she tumbles onto the stone work, teeth jarring only a little, before she quickly rolls to her feet and summons a blade of ice over her arm - sharp and jagged and thick -, bringing it up to block the first heavy blow.

All that training with Maxwell and Blackwall is really paying off.

She hears both of her dragons snarl, the sharp click of their throats, as they quickly put distance between themselves and the ballistas.

The twang of the first ballista and the heavy grinding of several more turning to aim at the obvious targets makes Evelyn’s teeth feel heavy and jagged in her mouth as she throws out her other hand full of lightning and sends it straight at the Warden closest to the nearest ballista.

Her ears are full of three things:

The cacophony of many voices blending together as they yell - words, languages, genders, ages, nations indistinguishable with the volume and the sheer amount of people - all around her, the only unifying factor urgency.

The ongoing screams and roars and bellows of dragons fighting above, and dragons that have yet to take off - and cannot with Inquisition dragons circling within close range to prevent take off - within the fortress.

The dull not exactly sound, but sensation, of her bones vibrating from impact as she reinforces the ice on her arm against the blows she deflects as she casts a wave of force magic outwards, giving herself room to call a shield.

Evelyn stands her ground and holds and out of the periphery of her vision she sees the spears and pikes of their vanguard begin to jab upwards as ladders latch and secure themselves to the fortress walls.

Once they get their heads up and begin to climb over Evelyn thrusts her hand up and discharges a single flaring bolt of green-white magic into the sky and bellows, “To me! Seize the ballistas!”

The positioning of the ballistas prevents them from being turned inwards against the dragons still on the ground, but at the very least they can take them and aim them at other people.

Evelyn quickly casts out shields on the people guarding the ladders as Inquisition infantry begin to take the walls.

There’s a loud furious trembling that can only be the doors under attack. The gates will fall soon.

Evelyn looks around, snags the nearest soldier to her and yells over the sound of battle, “Eyes to the sky. First sign of the Corypheus’ dragon I want all riders and archers on it.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” the soldier says, nodding and breaking away to pass word.

There’s a loud booming crash from Evelyn’s left and she sees a large cloud of sand and dust rising and settling. A fallen dragon.

Maker, let it not be one of theirs.

Seconds later a loud, triumphant roar echoes over the desert as a large, familiar shadow descends from the sky.

“Ballistas secured on the southern and western walls!” Someone yells out, as the shadow starts to circle around for a landing.

The Iron Bull lands with a loud shaking impact, resting his fore claws on top of the fortress’ southern walls, head rearing back -

“Everyone cover!” Evelyn yells out, casting a shield as thick and wide as she can to cover as many people as possible, and she covers her ears, turns away, and drops down, barely in time to muffle the Iron Bull’s fierce dragon scream.

It still feels like her teeth are rattled loose and like her brain has been turned to liquid. Even knowing he’s on her side, knowing that he fights for the Inquisition, there’s a dazzling and mind-wiping sense of fear that shoots straight through her gut for a moment before she recovers and gets up again.

The Wardens are not as lucky and are dazed, rattled, as Inquisition soldiers continue to pour up and over the walls.

Shimmering shapes scream from above -

“Gates are breached! The gates are breached!”

“East ballistas and northern ballistas captured! All ballistas are down!”

“Swarm the trebuchets!”

“Take the archers!”

“Inquisition forward!”

Evelyn turns up and sees Ellana landing down, half on the wall as she digs her claws into the stone and spits out a stream of acid in a half-moon around her at the Wardens still clustered nearby.

Mahanon flaps his wings, holding position as his hind claws reach forward and grab at a trebuchet’s wooden beams, and begins pulling.

“Move!” Evelyn yells, “On me! I’m heading down. Hold these walls and prepare for counter attack!”


	356. Chapter 356

“You mustn’t upset your father,” Aunt Sylaise says, voice soft and light like mist and morning breezes, “Not right now.”

Because Ellana dies - sleeps - in less than a year.

Ellana says nothing back, instead she bites her cheek and nods and leaves as Aunt Sylaise goes to speak with Father.

Mahanon is waiting for her outside, leaning against the wall of the house, watching as their hounds frolic about, tussling and playfully snapping at each other’s tails and ears.

“Are we going?” Mahanon asks.

Aunt Sylaise had said mustn’t upset Father, because Ellana dies in less than a year unless anyone can find a way to break Mythal’s gift-curse-prophecy.

Ellana dies in less than a year and she isn’t going to spend it being delicate and gentle and soft on other people’s feelings. There isn’t any time anymore.

“We’re going,” Ellana says, and Mahanon tosses her her bow.

They pass their dogs, brushing their hands over soft, soft heads and ears, and the dogs stop their play to follow.

The nearest village is several days walk away, but Ellana has never seen one outside of dreams and scrying spells - she’s never walked among people at a market or watched a street juggler or seen a play. She’s  _read_  about all of these things, she’s seen them in brief glimpses of scrying spells snatched away when no one was looking, and illusions of them have been conjured for her, but she’s never actually  _seen them_.

And she isn’t going to  _die_  without having experienced it for herself first.

“Your Father will be furious,” Mahanon says, once they’re far away enough that they think they won’t be heard.

“I know,” Ellana says, and calls out a single golden note.

Such as her gifts provide, a pair of stags come through the woods moments later.

Mahanon shakes his head before extending his hand towards one. The stag dips his regal head, nose snuffling against Mahanon’s palm before gently licking his fingers. Mahanon climbs the stag’s back and draws his hood up over his face.

Ellana holds out her hand towards the other - she knows this one. She recognizes him from previous jaunts through the woods. He must remember her, too, because he ignores her hand and licks her face. Ellana smiles as she quickly goes to climb up onto his back.

The dogs are silent, tails wagging as they wait for instruction.

Ellana points back in the direction of the house, “Distract.”

The dogs jump in place, tongues lolling out, but silent, before they split up and run through the forest. Their barks and bays begin to sound off moments later.

“I follow,” Ellana says, turning to her brother.

Mahanon nods once, and whispers to the stag, who starts to lope off and away. Ellana’s begins to follow

Two days by stag instead of four by their own legs. Of course, they aren’t going to ride the stags all the way up. It risks too much.

But it does cut down on some time.

Mahanon throws his voice into her ear, “Stay close to me.”

“Until I have to leave,” Ellana promises.

-

“So you know who he is,” Mahanon says.

“The problem is getting to him,” Ellana replies.

“I thought the point of the curse was to get him to you.”

“No, I think the curse was just to help me  _find_  him and find other people who can get me to him. It was just…to set me on the right path,” Ellana frowns as she winds a bit of string around her fingers, watching Mahanon throw a stick for the dogs.

“Tell me about him,” Mahanon says.

“What is there to tell?” Ellana has already said everything she knows.

“Tell me about him,” Mahanon repeats.

“He is a soldier,” Ellana says. “And a spy. He fights a war that shows no sign of being over or won or lost. He loves deeply, but he wishes he didn’t because it hurts him very much. His heart is a calloused thing.”

“And so he is marble?”

“He scars. The wounds are visible and made part of him. They shape him. And with each new one the shape of him changes, but he stands. He remains. And so he is marble. Or maybe that isn’t it at all. I’ve not spoken to him, you know. It’s not as though we’ve had conversations about any of it.” Ellana holds out her hand Demitrus, one of the younger dogs - he was just born when she went into her cursed sleep - brings the stick to her, the shape of it comical in his small mouth, and barks happily, tail wagging back and forth with great enthusiasm. Ellana smiles and rubs his ears before throwing the stick again.

Demitrus goes off running and barking, swarmed by six other dogs as they all go after the stick.

Mahanon hums, long fingers winding through the fur of their old cat, Rinona, as she lazily stretches and lounges on his lap.

“And how is this scarred soldier meant to be good for you?”

“Perhaps I am meant to be good for him. Perhaps this is not a story about me, but a story about him, and I am meant to help bring his to the next stage, or even to its conclusion.”

“And for the rest of us? Our stories all come together to become his story?” Mahanon asks. “Are we an invisible prologue? All our suffering and frustrations and fears come true, a stage being set for this stranger’s finale?”

Ellana shakes her head, watching as Demitrus and Poloma tug at the stick, trying to pull it from the other.

“We are all catalysts for each other’s stories. Perhaps story was the wrong word to use. But it does not change the fact that I feel a responsibility to go to him.”

“For what purpose? Your curse is lifted.”

“But he exists,” Ellana replies, “I  _found him_. My entire life aimed at the goal of finding this person.”

“Find a new goal.”

“With this one incomplete?” Ellana raises her eyebrows at her brother. “You of all people would say that to me? Don’t be a hypocrite, brother. We are the same stock after all. Once something has been caught in my teeth I won’t stop until I have the rest of it.”


	357. Chapter 357

She’s been getting headaches lately. Ellana isn’t sure if it has something to do with the memories she seems to be unlocking - everything but the ones she  _needs_  - every few days or if it’s the stress of working with the Inquisition.

Whatever it is that created Ellana, that pulled her and the rest of the Evunaris into this world, has been active doing other things.

Rifts in space and time, strange warped places were animals and plants and even people mutate, pulsing and diseased veins of bio-matter consuming entire cities - buildings and all -, people going insane with stories of monsters in their dreams, just to start with.

Sylaise died.

Ellana doesn’t know how she died - not yet - but she knows that she died.

Because Ellana woke up at two in the morning on that day, the Anchor mark on her arm glowing so bright that her entire room was illuminated, and her entire arm up to her shoulder, her chest, her heart, in such fierce pain she couldn’t draw in a breath to scream.

A single memory - not of the past, not of childhood, but of a present  _after_  that house, after all of them waking up confused and bloodied - had seared across her eyes.

She had seen through Sylaise’ eyes, and through the verdant expanse of the abandoned lot she had taken over, she saw someone moving.

Mythal’s golden eyes became clear in the jungle and the raven with Mythal’s eyes croaked in Mythal’s voice, “I forgive you.”

“I never asked you for it,” Sylaise said.

“But you wanted it,” Mythal replied, “You didn’t want to. I felt it even as you tore me apart. You didn’t want to. I’m sorry I came between you and him. The two of you were so close, once.”

A pang in Ellana-Sylaise’s heart that made her lip tremble.

“We all made our choices,” Sylaise said. And her offering in return - “Do you remember those days on the shores? You with the foam in your hair and me with the pollen on my fingers? Do you remember how we danced castles into creation and temples to ruin?”

The raven flew down to land on Sylaise’ arm, the weight heavy, the eyes so deep you almost thought you could put your hand through them and bring them back out gold crusted.

“Do you remember the beautiful dawn in your hair? And the twilight in mine?” Mythal replied, “Sister, how could I forget?”

When the present came back to Ellana’s vision vines had burst out of her skin and grown out across the bed and floor and begun to creep up the walls. And the bedroom window had shattered as the branches of the magnolia tree outside burst in.

Ellana sat there in the fading light of the Anchor, even as the cell phone Pentaghast had given her lit up not he table, and cried.

Did Mythal feel it too?

The headaches are annoying, but persistent and Ellana wishes that she was at least getting something  _worth_  the pain.

More memories of Cole. A few of Pavus, a couple of Rutherford and Montilyet. A handful about Aclassi and Blackwall and various other members of the Inquisition she’s slowly starting to suss out and trust. One or two of the Iron Bull - in brief flashes, in the peripheral. A wealth of memories of Mahanon, that come pouring into her every day, filling an ever widening void in her heart.

But not a single one of Solas. Aside from the first few she regained -  _he killed her brother, he took her brother, he took from her, he took, he takes, he takes -_

And not a single one of the other man who’s name she can’t remember, but who most certainly shared this room, this bed, this house with her.

Where are you? Who are you?

Ellana feels like she’s so close to finally understanding. Like everything and everyone around her  _knows_  this vital and integral part to herself that’s been missing, but they won’t tell her. Why?

 -

“She’s manipulating reality,” Vivienne says, hands in the pockets of her pristine lab coat as she watches the videos of Lavellan’s work on the several screens mounted on the wall. “I don’t know how, but she is. Look at that. That’s not even blood magic.”

She gestures to one screen where Lavellan stands over a hospital bed. The man on the bed is unconscious, and has a severe laceration on his abdomen.

Lavellan puts her fingers onto his skin and begins to knead the flesh around.

Bull feels a little sick as he watches the flesh contort, spread, and mold itself underneath her fingers. Like clay, like something viscous instead of fixed in shape.

Within minutes the flesh is literally kneaded and pinched and folded shut.

“No sigils, no runes, no ritual, no incantation, no preparation or components,” Vivienne says, “She just  _does_  it. That’s not magic anymore. It’s heresy of the highest sort but the only answer I can think of to say is that it’s the work of  _god_.”

Bull’s teeth grind as he remembers one of Solas and Corypheus’ particularly annoying and riling speeches about the powers of god and the duties of god and all that fucked up shit.

Ellana,  _his Ellana_ , would have hated this.

“And who is manipulating  _her_?” Leliana asks.

“That, I do not know,” Vivienne says, “Her memory is…patchy and somewhat conflicting. She has memories, Leliana, of things that haven’t happened to her. From what she’s explained she seems to believe that these are memories of her…components.”

“Components?” Bull asks.

“Yes,” Vivienne nods, “It took some coaxing, and if it weren’t for  _Cole_  I don’t think she would have answered anything, but I was eventually able to get some information out of her. This person is a conglomerate of ten different people. Well, nine, piled onto one base of Ellana Lavellan. From what I can tell Ellana Lavellan is the only mind in there, but she’s been receiving memories from the other nine. And her powers also come from those other nine. Lavellan believes that the Inquisition can help her find her other pieces and understand why and how this happened to her. It is under that understanding that she gave me this information.”

“Solas’ eyes,” Leliana says, “But Solas couldn’t do -  _that_.”

“No,” Vivienne concedes, “But he did  _dream_.”

She’s been getting headaches lately. Ellana isn’t sure if it has something to do with the memories she seems to be unlocking - everything but the ones she  _needs_  - every few days or if it’s the stress of working with the Inquisition.

Whatever it is that created Ellana, that pulled her and the rest of the Evunaris into this world, has been active doing other things.

Rifts in space and time, strange warped places were animals and plants and even people mutate, pulsing and diseased veins of bio-matter consuming entire cities - buildings and all -, people going insane with stories of monsters in their dreams, just to start with.

Sylaise died.

Ellana doesn’t know how she died - not yet - but she knows that she died.

Because Ellana woke up at two in the morning on that day, the Anchor mark on her arm glowing so bright that her entire room was illuminated, and her entire arm up to her shoulder, her chest, her heart, in such fierce pain she couldn’t draw in a breath to scream.

A single memory - not of the past, not of childhood, but of a present  _after_  that house, after all of them waking up confused and bloodied - had seared across her eyes.

She had seen through Sylaise’ eyes, and through the verdant expanse of the abandoned lot she had taken over, she saw someone moving.

Mythal’s golden eyes became clear in the jungle and the raven with Mythal’s eyes croaked in Mythal’s voice, “I forgive you.”

“I never asked you for it,” Sylaise said.

“But you wanted it,” Mythal replied, “You didn’t want to. I felt it even as you tore me apart. You didn’t want to. I’m sorry I came between you and him. The two of you were so close, once.”

A pang in Ellana-Sylaise’s heart that made her lip tremble.

“We all made our choices,” Sylaise said. And her offering in return - “Do you remember those days on the shores? You with the foam in your hair and me with the pollen on my fingers? Do you remember how we danced castles into creation and temples to ruin?”

The raven flew down to land on Sylaise’ arm, the weight heavy, the eyes so deep you almost thought you could put your hand through them and bring them back out gold crusted.

“Do you remember the beautiful dawn in your hair? And the twilight in mine?” Mythal replied, “Sister, how could I forget?”

When the present came back to Ellana’s vision vines had burst out of her skin and grown out across the bed and floor and begun to creep up the walls. And the bedroom window had shattered as the branches of the magnolia tree outside burst in.

Ellana sat there in the fading light of the Anchor, even as the cell phone Pentaghast had given her lit up not he table, and cried.

Did Mythal feel it too?

The headaches are annoying, but persistent and Ellana wishes that she was at least getting something  _worth_  the pain.

More memories of Cole. A few of Pavus, a couple of Rutherford and Montilyet. A handful about Aclassi and Blackwall and various other members of the Inquisition she’s slowly starting to suss out and trust. One or two of the Iron Bull - in brief flashes, in the peripheral. A wealth of memories of Mahanon, that come pouring into her every day, filling an ever widening void in her heart.

But not a single one of Solas. Aside from the first few she regained -  _he killed her brother, he took her brother, he took from her, he took, he takes, he takes -_

And not a single one of the other man who’s name she can’t remember, but who most certainly shared this room, this bed, this house with her.

Where are you? Who are you?

Ellana feels like she’s so close to finally understanding. Like everything and everyone around her  _knows_  this vital and integral part to herself that’s been missing, but they won’t tell her. Why?

 -

“She’s manipulating reality,” Vivienne says, hands in the pockets of her pristine lab coat as she watches the videos of Lavellan’s work on the several screens mounted on the wall. “I don’t know how, but she is. Look at that. That’s not even blood magic.”

She gestures to one screen where Lavellan stands over a hospital bed. The man on the bed is unconscious, and has a severe laceration on his abdomen.

Lavellan puts her fingers onto his skin and begins to knead the flesh around.

Bull feels a little sick as he watches the flesh contort, spread, and mold itself underneath her fingers. Like clay, like something viscous instead of fixed in shape.

Within minutes the flesh is literally kneaded and pinched and folded shut.

“No sigils, no runes, no ritual, no incantation, no preparation or components,” Vivienne says, “She just  _does_  it. That’s not magic anymore. It’s heresy of the highest sort but the only answer I can think of to say is that it’s the work of  _god_.”

Bull’s teeth grind as he remembers one of Solas and Corypheus’ particularly annoying and riling speeches about the powers of god and the duties of god and all that fucked up shit.

Ellana,  _his Ellana_ , would have hated this.

“And who is manipulating  _her_?” Leliana asks.

“That, I do not know,” Vivienne says, “Her memory is…patchy and somewhat conflicting. She has memories, Leliana, of things that haven’t happened to her. From what she’s explained she seems to believe that these are memories of her…components.”

“Components?” Bull asks.

“Yes,” Vivienne nods, “It took some coaxing, and if it weren’t for  _Cole_  I don’t think she would have answered anything, but I was eventually able to get some information out of her. This person is a conglomerate of ten different people. Well, nine, piled onto one base of Ellana Lavellan. From what I can tell Ellana Lavellan is the only mind in there, but she’s been receiving memories from the other nine. And her powers also come from those other nine. Lavellan believes that the Inquisition can help her find her other pieces and understand why and how this happened to her. It is under that understanding that she gave me this information.”

“Solas’ eyes,” Leliana says, “But Solas couldn’t do -  _that_.”

“No,” Vivienne concedes, “But he did  _dream_.”


	358. Chapter 358

Cullen sometimes thinks of sending back the weights Rylen gave him when he retired back, or donating them to some youth center.

When one has to bathe a very large - possibly half-mountain lion - cat on a monthly basis it seems to remove the need for weight training.

It would be nice if Bull’s bulk was just fur, it isn’t. And hefting Bull’s considerable weight up and bringing him into the bathroom, locking them both in, and depositing him into the tub, is a work out all on its own.

It doesn’t help that Cullen has to do some very noticeable prep-work first. Like removing the shower curtain. And making sure there aren’t anything on the counter tops and tying all the cabinets closed and locking up the toilet paper and paper towels and also putting his own towels in a separate room and moving all of his bathing supplies elsewhere.

It’s just Bull, Cullen, a copious amount of towels, and Ellana who always manages to sneak in winding through Cullen’s legs as she attempts to save her best friend, companion, and love of her nine lives.

Cullen may be romanticizing his cats, but the way that Ellana’s paws dig into the back of his shirt and the way she meows in protest as Bull tries to wrestle, sneak, bully, force, and plead his way out of it even as it’s happening gives him plenty of material to be building on.

His bathroom is always a downright mess afterwards, but Bull doesn’t fit in any of the sinks and if Cullen did this on the porch or in the back yard using the big tub he uses to wash Blackwall Bull would be able to escape for  _weeks_. Cullen knows this from experience.

Best to keep the damage contained. At least Cullen knows no one’s escaping - dignity intact or no.

Bull is a remarkably well behaved cat, except for baths. He’s even good at the vet.

He just doesn’t like taking a bath.

Oh, he’s very good with water. He just doesn’t like the rest of it. The shampooing and the drying and the manhandling and all.

To this effect Bull and his twenty something pounds of fur and muscle cling to Cullen like a very large infant - Cullen can hear the rips as Bull’s claws cling to his shirt - as Cullen tries to awkwardly lower him into the  _one inch_  of water in the tub.

“Come on,” Cullen says, “It’ll be over so quick. You’re only making it worse.”

Bull lets out a low and unhappy meow as he attempts to climb back out of the water. Cullen lifts his front paws up and holds them in one hand as he quickly grabs the handheld shower head in the other.

Once the process starts Bull is mostly behaved. There are always the surprises when Cullen lets his guard down, but Cullen likes to think he’s gotten better at it. And unless Bull’s gotten thumbs he’s not getting the bathroom door unlocked and opened.

Even wet the Iron Bull’s figure is rather intimidating. There’s a lot of fur, and there’s a lot of bulky cat underneath. He somehow looks even  _bigger_  wet.

The cat sulkily paws at the rim of the tub, “ _Mrow_.”

“Well how else am I supposed to make sure you don’t have anything?” Cullen says, “And you’re starting to smell.”

“ _Mirau_ ,” Bull grumbles in protest, attempting to stand up and Cullen quickly pushes him back down. “ _Mirowww!_ ”

“No,” Cullen says, firmly holding down on Bull’s back as he lathers up on his sides, “You’re staying put. You’re going to feel so much better when this is over and we won’t speak of it until next month.”

Ellana keeps batting at his back and arms and peering over the tub edge and looking very sadly at Bull as the larger cat sulks about his lot in life.

Little does she know - because somehow she’s  _never caught on_ that she’s next.

Cullen hauls Bull up out of the tub, sitting on the toilet as he swaddles his probably a mountain lion cat and gets to work trying to simultaneously hold Bull without Bull escaping, plug in the hairdryer, and push Ellana away with his foot.

Ellana bristles and shoves herself behind the toilet when the hair dryer turns on - which he only bought for his  _cat -_ and starts the very long process of getting Bull back up to his regular fluffy self. And as he is reminded every month, as intimidating as Bull is fluffy, he’s much more horrific wet.

“Alright,” Cullen says, letting Bull drop down onto the floor, shaking himself and licking his paws, “Now. The real trial begins.”

Cullen puts the hair dryer away and starts trying to fish Ellana out from behind the toilet. Now that the loud devil machine isn’t around Ellana comes easily, happily cozying up in Cullen’s arms.

Cullen almost hates to do this to her.

He gently puts her into the bath tub.

Ellana looks up at him with big confused eyes, “Mew?”

Her paws cling to his shirt as he gets the hand held.

“Mew?” Ellana tries to climb up but the sides are slippery and she is significantly smaller than the tub, especially when Cullen puts one hand on the back of her neck and holds her still.

And then he turns the water on and Ellana  _wails_.

“Mirau!” Ellana stretches out, trying to slip, slink, slide, and slither her way out of the tub like she’s a snake instead of a cat. Cullen almost drops the shower head three times as he does some quick cat juggling to hold Ellana in place.

Bull’s motor engine of a purr starts up and Cullen feels Bull’s tail swish against his back.

No doubt Bull’s gotten up onto the toilet seat to watch the proceedings.

Ellana keeps stretching out, the sound of her claws clattering against the sides of the tub and tiles, “ _Maaau! Mi! Mi! Mrau!”_

Her paws spread out comically as she tries to grasp for purchase to escape but Cullen’s got her on lock down.

It takes longer to get Ellana washed, despite her being much smaller in size and with less fur, but it’s because he keeps losing her like a bar of soap and the pitiful way she mews almost gets to his heart.

Cullen feels like he’s actually sweating as he finally picks Ellana up and carefully squeezes her paws and legs and tail to get rid of excess water before swaddling her.

“Off,” Cullen says and Bull lazily gets up onto the counter to watch as Cullen gets the hair dryer and sits down on the toilet again. 

Ellana’s struggles renew as Cullen turns the hairdryer on again.

“You’ll forgive me within the hour,” Cullen says, “And you’ll forget all about this until the next time and you’ll forgive me then too.”


	359. Chapter 359

"Alright, I've done everything I can possibly do, this vacation is going to be so much better than the last one,” Ellana says, hands on her hips as she surveys the private beach Vivienne had rented out for them.

Vivienne had told them to go on ahead while she had a drink back at the beach house, so Ellana grabbed Bull, Sera, Josephine, and Harding and booked it straight for the water.

“None of the boys are here,” Ellana says, “We’re all minorities, not a single one of us is a regular cis-het white human male. No one has ever died on this land, no one’s ever gone missing in a thirty mile radius, there’s no  _crime_  here that I can find in the past  _fifty years_. There aren’t any local legends about ghosts or abductions or whatever. This is a regular beach with regular water that doesn’t have sharks -  _I’ve checked, Sera_  - or poisonous animals and there are no bears in the woods by the house and  _we’re going to have a nice, good, simple vacation_  at the beach, just us girls.”

Sera points at Bull as he sets up a giant beach umbrella for them while Josephine spreads out towels with Harding.

“Well. He’s not a cis-het white  _human_  male,” Ellana says. “So he can’t be the one attracting the bad vacation juju.”

“Fair,” Sera shrugs, tossing a volleyball from one hand to the other, “So. Vacation start?”

“ _Yes.”_

Ellana quickly takes off her t-shirt and throws it at the Iron Bull who catches it without looking, as well as her shorts and both of her flip-flops.

“I’m beginning to think I’m here for labor,” Bull says.

“And to look very handsome in the sun,” Josephine replies, sitting down underneath the umbrella as she digs around her huge tote bag for sunscreen.

Ellana stretches, eyeing the water with a raw determination you would expect from someone about to do something unfavorable, and she nods once to herself and starts jogging into the water.

“I think she was scarred from our last vacation,” Harding says, holding out her hands towards Sera as Sera lightly tosses the ball up and jogs back.

“Yeah, totally,” Sera replies, passing the ball back to Harding as they slowly move apart from each other, “It’s healing over mostly, though. You can’t even see it anymore, not really. It’s smoothened out a lot.”

“No - I mean. Yeah, yes. But I meant  _mentally._ Is Dagna coming out? I swear she was right behind us and she has my hat.”

Sera glances towards the beach house, “Huh. Maybe she went inside for a bit?”

Underneath the umbrella Josephine and Bull are talking about a discussion they had started on the drive over concerning foreign policy towards immigrants from hostile nations coming into Orlais.

Josephine’s phone buzzes from inside of her bag.

“Hold on,” Josephine says, fishing for it as Bull lies down on the umbrella, arms folded behind his head. “Cullen? What?”

“Hey guys! Look who joined the party train!” Dagna yells out.

They all look to see Dagna waving Cole’s arm around the air.

Next to Cole is Varric, also waving.

Next to Varric is Rylen, gesturing in a vague  _oops_? kind of way.

“Oh fuck,” Bull says, at the same time they all hear a furious, outraged, completely and utterly baffled scream from the ocean.

Everyone turns towards the water as they watch Ellana emerge from the waves with the wrath of a primordial being.

Ellana’s shoulders are stiff, her mouth is pulled down into a ferocious scowl, and she waves one hand in the air, “ _What the fuck_?”

She jabs at the ocean behind her.

“What the fuck?”

She turns around, both hands gesturing at the ocean as she screams, “ _What the goddamn fuck?_ ”

“What?” Harding asks, nervously squeezing the volleyball, “What is it?”

“ _I swam into a dead body!_ ” Ellana yells, “ _What the fuck?_  Who did it? Who brought the bad horror movie juju on me? Who did this?”

“Boss?” Bull says, slowly sitting up. “I think you need to breathe. Do some breathing exercises. Get a little under control maybe.”

“Under control?  _Nothing_  is under control!” Ellana kicks at sand furiously.

Josephine and Harding are both waving for the people on the porch to go hide.

Ellana turns around, sees them doing this, and follows the line of sight to the porch.

Ellana points a finger at them, “I swear to god.  _I swear to fucking god if you brought your majority wielding asses over here with your horror movie bullshit I’m going to fucking -_ “

“Ladies,” Vivienne emerges onto the porch, “I think we’re going to have to cut this vacation of ours short unfortunately. I just got a call from the colleague who let me use this house and he says that the caretaker has been reported missing and that a several serial killers escaped from a prison bus a few miles from here.”

Ellana’s finger slowly curls into her fist as she presses her knuckles her forehead.

“You okay there?” Sera asks.

“Babe,” Bull stands up quickly and walks over to her, putting his hands on her shoulders, “It’s just serial killers. You could argue that  _we’re_  serial killers, we just get paid by the government to do it.”

“Bull,” Ellana whispers.

“Yeah?”

“When I get my hands on whoever did this I am going to rip them from head to groin,” Ellana says, “I am going to rip them in  _half_.”

Bull pulls Ellana into a loose hug, “It’ll be fun, babe. I mean. These guys are probably amateurs. They got  _caught_  to start with, right? We’ll catch them and solve this in like, a day or two, and we can get back to the beach and shit. Sera and Dagna home-brewed twenty pounds of fireworks.”

Ellana sniffles, “I think I found a forest of dead bodies in the water, Bull. I think I stumbled onto a  _cold case_.”

“Ah, fuck,” Bull sighs, shoulders slumping a little, “Well. We have each other I guess.”

“I’d rather have the vacation.”


	360. Chapter 360

Bull finds Ellana about thirty minutes after she storms off when Sera fishes a guy out from underneath the porch with literal fishing wire, a really mean hook, and a lot of screaming.

She’s sulking, sitting down with her arms around her legs - one hand loosely curled around the gun she had taken on the way out, because she was upset not stupid, and going out into the private land filled with escaped serial killers unarmed is beyond stupid - and sniffling, underneath one of the trees to the side of the house. She sees him, and stubbornly clenches her jaw and looks away. Her nose is red and runny and he’d probably feel bad for her if it weren’t so cute.

“You done having your tantrum?” Bull asks, gently lowering his backpack next to her as he crouches down and puts his hand on her head. Ellana burrows her head into her arms.

“Go away, leave me like everything else,” Ellana’s voice is muffled, rough, and incredibly petulant. It’s a little out of character, but Bull thinks it’s cute so he’ll let it slide for now. “Go back to your summer horror movie of a vacation and let me mope.”

“It’s not as bad as our attempt at a winter vacation,” Bull points out. “No magic mutant demon spawn things. Just regular serial killers. This is basically our regular jobs.”

“But you go on vacation to  _get away_  from your job!” Ellana bursts out, waving her arms out, gesturing the gun out towards the woods, “How come our jobs  _follow us_? Don’t they want a break from us too? How many terrible horror movies am I going to live through until I get some quiet?  _Why did the universe decide my life has to be the horror movie one?_  Why couldn’t it have been a different genre? A musical, even!”

“I’ll just - “ Bull quickly grabs the wrist of the hand brandishing the gun - safety on - and gently pulls it out of her hand. “Here. I’ll trade.”

Bull opens his backpack and tilts it towards her so she can see.

Ellana blinks, “You brought my good sniper rifle?”

“Never leave base without it, babe,” Bull says, “And I brought your good knife.”

He pulls said knife out and hands it to her.

Ellana looks a little perkier and more like her usual self immediately with the knife in her hand.

Bull kisses her cheek, pressing his forehead against her temple, “Look. We’re going to get rid of these amateurs, because let’s face it, that’s what they are. You think a horror movie thriller is going to win against us? Babe, we’re would be god killers. Our home genre is thriller adventure mixed with high fantasy political feuds. Summer flick genres don’t measure up as shit on our radars. Remember that time with Crassius?”

Ellana giggles a little under her breath, and Bull smiles.

“And that one week where we went down so fucking hard on those newbie fucks by the Mire?”

Bull kisses her cheek, the soft skin of her temple, tilts his head and nips at her ear, Ellana’s giggle turns into a loud laugh, one hand snaking around his neck as she pulls him closer.

“I still have really fond memories of that time when you completely and totally trashed that demon infested mansion in the Graves.”

Ellana turns her head and kisses his cheek, “Stop, you’re making me feel happy again and I should still be mad about having my vacation ruined.”

Bull brushes her hair back and kisses her forehead, “No, you’re about to make it the most fucking awesome vacation ever. So you don’t want a horror movie genre, what genre do you want?”

“Anime slice of life featuring really detailed shots of food,” Ellana answers immediately.

Bull shouldn’t be surprised that she had that ready.

“Alright, so,” Bull says, “I think we can get there if we squeeze in summer action blockbuster sequel first.”

“I can live with that,” Ellana says, pulling away and digging through his backpack, “Gimme some room to put my boo together and catch me up on what ya’ll’ve been doing back at the ranch.”

“Summer action blockbuster doesn’t mean cowboys.”

“Then what’s the point, Bull? What’s the  _yee-diddly-haw_ point?”

-

“Alright, strategy meeting,” Ellana says as Harding and Josephine cut up watermelon, “We’ve got how many serial killers?”

“A bus load,” Sera answers.

“Do we have a number on that?”

“Phone line’s been cut,” Vivienne says, “Which is very annoying. Do you know how much they  _charge_  for maintenance out here?”

“Cell reception?”

“It’s a rich person’s vacation house, it’s the best you can get,” Sera says, “We’ve got people working on it. They’re also going to be sending us dossiers and shit. But in the mean time we got the dumbass who decided to try and  _hide under our porch_.”

“They can’t be  _good_  serial killers,” Josephine says mildly, “If they got caught. And if they hide under the porch of people from the Inquisition.”

“Does he know we’re Inquisition?” Ellana asks, as she jots all of this down on her tablet. “Where did you put him, Sera?”

“I hung him from a tree,” Sera replies. “Around the waist, not from the neck. Andraste, don’t look at me like that Rutherford.”

“What are you lot doing here anyway?” Ellana asks, narrowing her eyes at Dorian, “You were supposed to be on my side.”

“I had a bad feeling,” Cole says, fiddling with a bright pink straw, lemonade sweating off to the side and untouched, “I needed to see you and Dorian’s the only one who knew where you were.”

“You two I can understand and forgive,” Ellana says, “But Dorian. You brought the entire fucking horror movie protagonist cavalry?  _Really_?”

“If you think I’m going to be driving  _my_  car all the way out here you’re sorely mistaken. And if you think that your Commander was going to allow me to use Inquisition vehicles for personal use you sorely overestimate my ability to trick your Commander with my wiles.”

“If there was a security risk - “ Cullen starts, and quickly shuts up when Cassandra and Sera both kick him.

“I met their car at the gas station,” Cassandra says,  “When I was picking up the things we forgot. And I attempted to get them to leave. But then we got the notice of the prison escapees.”

Bull knocks on the glass door to the back porch, sliding it open, “Hey, I set up the grill. Is food ready yet?”

Skinner calls out, “Hey, Sera, I think your guy is gonna puke. Or he did something dumb to his back trying to escape. You want me to poke him with a stick or something?”


	361. Chapter 361

“So? Where are the love birds?” Dorian asks, turning to Cassandra and handing her a can of beer as they examine the map spread out over the large ostentatious dining room table. They’ve pushed all the chairs to the side and have something of a command center set up in the middle of a very lovely and tastefully decorated formal dining room. Whoever it is Vivienne is borrowing this vacation house from has every good taste or a very good decorator in their employ. Dorian is going to find a way to find whoever it is when this is over so he can direct them towards working on a few projects he has for some of his colleagues.

Cassandra takes it, popping the tab open and drinking as she traces a path down the southern shoreline towards the highway. “On the beach, I presume. Last I saw Ellana had found a megaphone and was yelling vague and upsetting threats towards the woods while Bull blasted power ballads from a boom box.”

“To what purpose, dare I ask?”

It sounds like them.

“Foreplay,” Vivienne says, entering the dining room with a bowl of artisan trail mix, offering the bowl to Dorian, “I assume.”

“Right,” Dorian muses. “Any other reason aside from general flirtation?”

“Giving them a fair chance at surrender,” Cassandra muses, “Or creating a psychological tension of some sort. Here, this would be a good place to set up a strike. Hand me that dossier.”

Dorian turns around and gets the file Cassandra is pointing to, flipping it open, “Oh, nasty.”

“Quite,” Vivienne agrees, reading over Dorian’s shoulder. “I take it that our darling Lavellan is done with her little outburst? Poor dear, it’s not healthy to be so tense. But this situation isn’t anything to be concerned about. It doesn’t do to be so worked up over something so small and unworthy.”

“That’s the point of a vacation,” Dorian says, handing Cassandra the file and glad to be rid of it.

There’s a knock on the doorframe that leads to the front sitting room and they turn to see Cullen standing there, reading something off of his tablet, knuckles raised against the doorframe.

“Cassandra, I need your eyes for a moment. I think Leliana and I have found the source of this,” Cullen looks up, “Am I interrupting?”

Vivienne holds out the trail mix to Cullen, “Not at all, Commander. Roasted almonds? Dark chocolate covered pretzels with sea salt? Carmel drizzled popcorn with organic butter?”

Cullen blinks, “No thank you. Has anyone seen the Iron Bull? It would help to have him look at this as well, he was working on a project regarding organized crime circuits around Denerim, I believe.”

“Flirting with Ellana on the beach,” Dorian says.

Cullen rolls his eyes, “Of course.”

Dorian hears the patio door open and everyone casually reaches for a gun.

“It’s me,” Harding says, “The traps are finished on the beach. Bull and Ellana are building a pit for a bonfire tonight. How many marshmallows do we have?”

Everyone stops going for weapons.

“Anything to report on the serial killers?” Cullen asks, walking in to stand next to Cassandra as she takes his tablet from him and starts to read over his notes. “What progress?”

“Nothing,” Harding says, “I think the one Sera caught earlier has scared the others off. Maybe they’re going to work together now? I’m not sure, ser, sorry. By the way? No one go on the beach for a while, Bull and Ellana are making out.”

“I thought they were making a fire pit.”

“They started but they haven’t finished yet. They got distracted by each other. Speaking out of turn ser? They’re being  _dorks_  and it’s really cute and I’m good at handling a lot of stuff but being a third wheel to my boss isn’t one of those things.”

-

“Alright, we’re going to light this shit up,” Dagna says, grinning as she flicks her lighter. I challenge anyone to hide in the dark while my display is going. Hey, Sera, babe, where are the speakers? I want to test the connections to my laptop. I have a really cool playlist for this.”

“How did you get so many fireworks?” Cullen asks, eyebrows raising as he leans against Dagna’s truck.

“I made some of them,” Dagna shrugs, “Sera made some. We bought some. Took some from…places. Look, you weren’t even invited to this party so you can’t judge me okay? I had gotten this assuming that you wouldn’t be here so you can’t judge me for this. I would have totally done something with less…this…if I knew you were going to come with.”

“Nice fireworks,” Ellana says, reaching into the pick up’s bed to look through the neatly labeled bundles, “Is this the one you and Bull were talking about? The firework they only make once a year in Rivain? How’d you get this one?”

Dagna points at Cullen, “ _No judging_.”

Cullen holds his hands up in surrender and Dagna goes to enthusiastically explain her haul to Ellana.

“So she’s back to herself, mostly,” Cullen says to Bull who’s hauling beach furniture out from the house’s storage shed to the sand. “Thank you.”

Bull shrugs, “Would’ve happened with or without me. That’s just how she is.”

“Need help?”

“You free?”

“Free enough,” Cullen says and takes a few plastic chairs from Bull and follows him onto the beach. “Maybe next time you and Ellana go on vacation alone.”

“Nah, she likes having a lot of people around and I don’t care either way,” Bull says. “Besides it’d still be this fucked up even if it was just the two of us with her luck. At least this way there’s more people for her to be distracted by.”

“I imagine she’d appreciate some time alone with you,” Cullen replies. “Or time with you in general.”

“We’ve got plenty of time for that,” Bull laughs, “Are you being my wingman right now, Rutherford? S’cute. Thanks for the consideration.”


	362. Chapter 362

“Hey, Mahanon?”

“Hm?” Mahanon digs through the pockets of his suitcase trying to find the wooden salad spoon and fork he’d gotten Mom when he was in the Anderfels, “What?”

“I’m in trouble,” Ellana says.

“You  _are_  trouble,” Mahanon tells her, hand closing around something that seems fork shaped but when he pulls it out it’s only the shoe horn he’d bought their uncle. “What is it?”

“I need your help,” Ellana says. “I need you to help me ambush my ex-boyfriend and get him to sit down and talk with my current boyfriend about why he needs to help me and my current boyfriend fight his parents and get them to not arrange to have me murdered.”

Mahanon turns around and sees Ellana spinning around in his desk chair.

“Excuse me?”

There are so many things going on in that sentence - was it really only one sentence? - and Mahanon doesn’t even know where to start.

“ _Boyfriend_?” Mahanon repeats, “ _Ex-boyfriend_?  _What_?”

“Oh, right,” Ellana stops spinning, “Maxwell and I dated for a bit and then we broke up because he found out I’m a werewolf now and then I met this guy who moved to town with his friends and we started dating and it’s cool mostly except Maxwell’s parents are like - werewolf hunters? And he’s obligated to kill me but obviously he doesn’t want to kill me and now we hav to figure out how to make sure his parents don’t kill me in cold species-ist blood.”

And somehow it get even more -

Mahanon sits down on the bed.

“You dated  _Maxwell_?”

“For like. A month.”

“I was gone for three months,” Mahanon says, “I’m never going on a study abroad trip again.”

“But you already have one lined up for next semester,” Ellana replies. “You were really looking forward to your semester in Rivain.”

“Fuck that, what if I come back and you’re married?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bull and I aren’t going to get  _married_. I only just started dating him  _two months ago_.”

“Bull?  _Who’s Bull_?”

“I know you’re jet lagged but it’s like you aren’t listening to me. He’s the guy who move into town with his friends and he’s trying to help me get Maxwell to convince his parents not to kill me. I mean, of course Maxwell doesn’t want his parents to kill me but we haven’t figured out how to get that to not happen yet.”

Mahanon breathes in slowly and exhales loudly, steepling his fingers together and pointing his fingertips at her.

“I’m going to need you to start at the very fucking beginning.”

Ellana rolls her eyes, “Where do I start?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Werewolf?”

“I was bitten by a werewolf when Sera and I were checking out a crime scene in August.”

“Wait, I was still home then. How did I miss that?”

“You and Dorian were busy worrying about your long distance relationship, never mind that Dorian spends half the year in Tevinter anyway.”

Right.

“Wait - crime scene?”

“Listen, do you want the story or not? You can’t keep getting caught up on the little details.”

“ _A crime scene isn’t a little -_ “

“Anyway, I got werewolf powers and then Maxwell and I tried dating for a bit and then he got this crush on this lady who goes to the campus gym to help with the people in the physical therapy course so Max and I decided to split and then afterwards he found out I’m a werewolf and he flipped because his parents kill werewolves and now he won’t be my friend because he’s scared that his parents will find out and then they’ll make him kill me or something. Meanwhile I started dating this cute guy I met when I was helping him carry his million coffee cups to his truck because he’s a really nice person who buys coffee for his friends and we just hit it off and started dating and then  _he_  found out that I’m a werewolf and he revealed that  _he_  is totally in on the scene and - “

Mahanon holds a hand up, “Mercy.”

Ellana rolls her eyes at him again.

“I was literally gone for three months and all of this happened and you didn’t tell me  _any of it?”_

 _“_ I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

“Does Mom know?”

“Of course Mom knows, who do you think was the first person I told?”

“Sera?”

Ellana ticks people off on her fingers, “She was the fourth person I told.”

“ _Fourth_?”

“Mom, Dad, Cole, Sera,” Ellana ticks off.

“How come I wasn’t anywhere on that list?”

“You were in the Anderfels! What was I supposed to do? You couldn’t help me. You’re barely helping me right now that you do know. I haven’t even gotten to the part I need your help for.”

“Fast forward to that part and then we’ll fill in the middle parts.”

“I was trying to but you kept getting hung up on the weirdest shit.”

“The fact that you’ve had not just one boyfriend but  _two_  while I was away is astounding.”

“Why? Loads of people we know have boyfriends. You have a boyfriend. Evelyn sorta has a boyfriend. I mean, Sera doesn’t because she’s a lesbian but she has a girlfriend.”

“I can’t believe Evelyn didn’t tell me that you and her cousin were dating. We had the same study group and activity coordinators,” Mahanon says. “She was constantly texting Max.”

“Well that sucks, I guess, maybe you should check in on that. Maybe she’s mad at your or something. Anyway, back to me.”

“Does it ever get away from the topic of you? Sometimes I think that I’m some sort of secondary character to your main plot point.”

“Don’t’ be absurd, Mahanon. You’re such a drama queen. Anyway. You’re the one person in all of Haven who could unite people in their deep fear and unsettling dread of your presence, I need your help to get Maxwell’s parents off my literal and figurative scent.”

“Do I get to unpack my bags at least?” Mahanon asks, dryly.

“Did you bring me anything cool?”

“Some leather I tanned myself.”

“Then yeah you get to unpack. Welcome home.”


	363. Chapter 363

“I’m ready to try again if you are,” Lavellan says, causing Bull to glance up and away from the fingers he’s taping. She looks so ridiculously hopeful and excited and a little worried Bull can’t  _help_  but just -

This lady makes him feel all sorts of sappy shit and he’s surprised every time by how deep those sappy feelings go. Honestly the fact that he hasn’t somehow turned into a giant goop person when he’s around her and somehow manages to maintain his composure as a big fucker you don’t mess with is astounding.

“Boss,” Bull says, “Our tires just got shot out by a rival family. I don’t think we should be trying anything again for a while.”

“But,” Lavellan’s lower lip juts out and starts to wobble precariously. They really need to get her a different body guard. He’s going to end up looking like a giant sap in front of someone important and they’ll try to walk all over him  _and_  her both and it won’t end well. For that person. But the point of Bull being a big and mean looking fuck is that no one tries to mess with them to start with. A fight never started is a fight won, there are prettier ways to say it but Bull isn’t known for saying pretty things. “ _But, Bull_.”

Those two words? That tone of voice? Those eyes?

She’s going to pull that one him one day and it’s going to be literally the last thing he sees and hears before he does something completely stupid and  _dies_.

“Our car,” Bull says, gesturing to the warped metal behind them, “Is non-operational. Back up will be here in less than ten minutes.”

“But the cafe is like, five minutes that way,” Lavellan whines, hopping from foot to foot, “Bull. We could go, I could take some cute pictures for my feed, we’ll order something nice - they’ve got that coco with cinnamon and churros and whip cream for days, we could get that - and we’ll be right back here and it’ll be  _fine_.”

“Boss,” he hates that she knows what food he likes better than other foods, he accidentally found her notebook about it once and it was - frankly - terrifyingly detailed and in depth with charts and plans and secret pictures and he should be more concerned or creeped out than he is touched by it, and that she uses it against him. “ _We just got attacked by a rival group_. This is not a good idea. They knew we were coming here. This was a trap. We have a leak somewhere on the inside.”

“Bull,” Lavellan takes his hand, the one he was taping his fingers on - he needs to thank Stitches for putting that huge med-kit in the car, shame only parts of it survived - and holding his hand up to her face, eyes big and wide and  _pretty_ , “ _Please_?”

“You’re going to get us  _killed,_ ” Bull groans, but lets her pull him away from the car, “Pentaghast is going to cut my head off.”

“They’ve got cupcakes with  _whiskey_ ,” Lavellan says, like she’s luring a particularly ornery cat or stray from underneath a porch, “Come on, Bull. You know you want to try it.”

“I know I want to try it, but do I want to die for it _?”_

Lavellan throws him one of her more particularly devastating smiles.

“No, but you’d die for me, wouldn’t you?”

-

“Oh no,” Lavellan blinks, “Weapons I’m fine with, some drugs I’m okay with, information is wonderful, and gambling is fine. But we aren’t having  _people_  trafficked around our territory. Cullen, who’s doing that? Cullen who’s  _stupid enough_  to try and start a trafficking ring in Inquisition territory?”

“One of the older Orlesian families,” Cullen says, “Leliana is working on the details now, but we’ve managed to get definite schedules for their drop points and pick up zones.”

“How long until we can shut it down and what plans do we have for making an example?” Lavellan asks, “And most importantly,  _why_  did this happen to start with? Did we look  _weak_? Did someone thing we were  _vulnerable_?”

“It’s entirely possible that they thought we had our hands full with other things,” Leliana says, “And that we wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, the Inquisition notices everything. We’ve invested very heavily in knowing everything.”

Lavellan hums, unhappy. It’s never a good thing to get the Inquisitor unhappy. She starts getting the most interesting ideas about how to be  _not_  unhappy.

“Who do we have on this?” She asks.

“Skinner and Grim from the Chargers,” Cullen says, “On the strong arm side. Rylen’s been rotating a team in and out for the patrols and checks to avoid suspicion.”

“Sailor, Cooper, Gardner, and Walker on the intelligence side,” Leliana answers, “I believe Sera is also working on something with her people in regards to this. The tip off came from Sera’s Jennies, after all.”

Lavellan hums.

“Put Cassandra on this.”

“Cassandra?” Josephine pauses as she’s taking notes and glands up. “Um. Are you certain?”

“Why?”

“Forgive me, Inquisitor,” Leliana says carefully, “But Cassandra isn’t the most  _subtle_  person we have on our roster. She might - ah. Blow the entire thing open.”

“Good,” Lavellan says, “Cassandra Pentaghast is the most terrifying person I know. And I want these idiots  _witless_  with fear. Put her on the job, I want this dealt with by this time next month. I’m sure if it’s Cassandra she can do it within the week, but I know she’s working on several other projects as well. I also want to know why whoever it is thought this would pass unpunished and I want them to tell me  _to my face_. Next on our list?”

Josephine rips off a piece of paper and gestures for one of their runners to come and get it from her, whispering into their ear before sending them off.

“Next on our list, we have a requisition from the Iron Bull - “

“Approved.”

The three advisors laugh and Lavellan smiles.

“Is my bias showing yet? Should I actually listen to what it is first?”


	364. Chapter 364

“This is so stupid, I quit organized crime,” Lavellan announces. “I quit!”

“You can’t quit, you’ve only just started to get very good at it,” Leliana replies, amused as she taps away on her laptop, “And you cut quite an impressive figure in the rumors. You have a very mysterious air about you, or so I have them say.”

Lavellan groans, “Who decided that organized crime could only show up in their ballroom best? Tuxedos? Three piece suits? Gowns? I’m  _dying_. It’s so  _hot_. Why can’t the look be rompers?”

“You hate rompers. You hate peeing in rompers. You once tried to get me to cut a hole in your romper’s crotch because you had to pee so bad but you had a broken arm so you couldn’t hold the thing up off the bathroom floor,” Bull says, amused as he rummages through the bag of things he’d bought from the convenience store, “Here. Creamiscle.”

Lavellan takes the creamiscle and sticks it onto her forehead.

“It’s too hot for me to meet with anyone looking  _presentable_. Really. Who decided what presentable means? We’re  _organized crime_ , why do we have to be dressed to the nines? Tens? Elevens?”

“Nines,” Josephine confirms when Lavellan turns to look at her for confirmation. “And you just said the answer. We’re  _organized_  crime. We have an image to uphold.”

“An  _image_? That’s so unfair.” Lavellan scowls, peeling her creamsicle open and glaring at Bull as he hands Leliana her lemonade. “And  _you_. All  _you_  have to do is put on a t-shirt and people get distracted because of  _muscles_. And somehow that’s fine? Unfair.”

“Sexism,” Bull shrugs. “You’ll be in air conditioning.”

“But what about those five minutes between the car and the venue? Those five minutes of me in a bra and the dress and the make up and the whole ensemble? I feel like the Hawke family wouldn’t even care. I could turn up in flip flops and my swim suit looking to borrow their pool for a bit and they’d be cool with talking business while I hit Carver with a pool noodle. I mean. Somehow I feel like they’d even encourage it.”

“She’s not wrong,” Leliana says after a beat, looking at Josephine. “It is an informal meeting.”

“That will decide the fate of very important business,” Josephine replies, unswayed, “Maybe next time when alliances are more solidified.”

“How solid to alliances need to be? Garrett and I do cross fit twice a week,” Lavellan says, “Bethany and I are teaching each other needle point. I hit Carver with a two by five by accident during a raid and he sulked at me about it. Marian and I visit weird food places together. We’re like, best friends and everything.”

“That’s personal, this is business,” Josephine says, “You hit Carver with a two by five?”

“He looked like a thug.”

Leliana snickers under her breath.

“He looked impressed with her swing afterwards,” Bull says. It was a truly impressive swing. Krem would’ve been proud of her if he’d been there to see it happen.

“You know, when you guys sold me on this organized crime business I didn’t anticipate for there to be so much politics in it,” Lavellan says, biting into her ice cream bar. It’s gone within four bites and she looks up at Bull very sadly. Bull pulls out another one.  She beams as she declares, “You’re my absolute always favorite.”

“Same,” Bull says, “You need me for anything else? I’m going to go shower because it’s a thousand degrees outside and I can feel my everything sticking to my everything.”

-

“You can’t honestly expect me to do business during Cullen’s wedding,” Lavellan says, “I’ve got to be out there teasing him about everything before I give him away to Evelyn. I can’t be inside talking business with people. It’s unsavory.”

“You’re a big time boss,” Bull says, “People’ll wanna ask you favors.”

“Can’t they ask me any other time?”

“No time like the present,” Bull shrugs. “Anyway, we’ll have something set up to ferret out the bulll shit requests. And most of them will probably just want to say hi or thanks for the invite or whatever.”

“They really ought to be saying that to Josephine because she organized the entire wedding down to what half the guests are going to wear.” Lavellan pauses, “Hey are you going to wear the lapel pin and everything?”

“It’s Josephine, Boss,” Bull replies, “I’m going to wear everything exactly like she told me to on her email. I advise against ignoring her email.”

“Dang,” Lavellan sighs, “If you weren’t going to follow it to the letter I was going to try and ditch the shoes.”

“And wear what?”

“Flip flops.”

“ _Boss_.”

“Cute ones! Really cute ones!”

“It’s a  _wedding_. For your top brass. And one of your best allies.”

“ _They were really cute flip flops_  and they matched my dress perfectly, I’ll have you know. They aren’t cheap either. They’re  _designer_.” Lavellan’s shoulders slump. “I”ll wear the heels. I guess. Anyway, where am I going to be conducting business during the reception? I thought we settled on one of the Trevelyan’s old country estates. I don’t think I should be using their house to do Inquisition business.”

“It’s fine, the property is going to be Evelyn and Cullen’s anyway. We’ve checked the place. It’s clean,” Bull says. “You’ll be using the second floor study. Well. It’s a bedroom but it’s got a desk and it’s private and it’s easy to defend. It’ll probably be converted to Cullen’s study later anyway.”

“I want to decorate his study.”

“Ask Evelyn.”

Lavellan pulls out her phone immediately. Bull covers it with his hand and pushes her hands down, taking her phone and putting it down on the table between them. “After we get through the itinerary, boss.”

“Spoil sport,  _fine_. What else do I need to be briefed on?”

“Well. you’re probably not going to like it but Zevran’s gonna be there.”

“Fuck Zevran, that meanie conned me out of  _thirty grand_ , why is he invited?”

“Friend of the Spymaster.”

“So?” Lavellan groans into her hands, “And he’s a tease.”

“Yup,” Bull crosses his legs and flips through the guest list, “One of the few times I ever see you ruffled. I think it’s more for morale than anything. Also he and Cullen are weird Blight buddies. They share war stories from the fifth territory war between the Wardens and the Darkspawn.”

“Fine, for Cullen then, I suppose. Anyone else I need to worry about?”

“You ever make up with Mahariel?”

“Which one?”

“Theron.”

“Can I quit this wedding?”


	365. Chapter 365

“Do you think he crashed the car on purpose?” Bull asks Stitches as the younger man takes notes on the body still in the driver’s seat.

“To avoid a run in with the Inquisition? Probably,” Stitches replies, “Crashing the car couldn’t hurt worse than whatever  _you’d_  do to him.”

“Only if the Boss wanted it,” Bull shrugs, because in all fairness it’s probably true. He looks around and sees Lavellan crab-walking towards them while Cullen and Rylen follow after her looking exasperated and bemused by this. “Are you trying to work out your thighs or fuck up your knees?”

“It’s hot,” Lavellan says. “My thighs are rubbing together. It’s annoying. This solves it. I feel sweat in new places that don’t have the right to be feeling sweat. Tell me we have good news.”

“Our lead is dead,” Stitches says. “Dead as a doornail. If he had anyone else with him they’re gone and I leave that up to Sera and Skinner to figure out. You’d need to get this body to Dorian to see if there was anything else done - drugs, maybe - but I can tell you right now. Apparent cause of death? Suicide via car crash.”

“Good news, Stitches. I said  _good news_.”

“Good news is that all the stolen Inquisition stuff is relatively undamaged in the trunk of the car,” Bull says, jerking his head towards the trunk. “And looks like the guy’s been skimming off the top from the Red Templars because there’s a lot of cash in there.”

“Rylen,” Cullen says and the other man nods, before gesturing for some of their guys to start unloading the trunk. “Anything else of note?”

“The guns are unmarked, probably a hard trace,” Bull continues, “But I’m willing to bet that he stole them from our armory to start with.”

Lavellan has finished her slow crab walk right up to the edge of the shattered glass and warped metal from the wreck, “Exactly how many leaks and traitors are we working with exactly? I don’t understand why people keep thinking they can double cross us like this and have things go okay for them. Aren’t I a good boss? I mean. I don’t  _abuse_  my power over people. I’m polite. I remember birthday’s and names. No one’s been blackmailed into joining.”

No one points out that the first person who ever attempted to betray them is now with them because Lavellan had every single person they’d come into contact with  _assassinated_.

It’s sort of blackmail, even though nothing was ever explicitly said.

“Any further news to report about this?” Lavellan says, still holding her legs apart stance. Bull is tempted to try pushing her to see how steady she is. He doubts it would go very well.

“We tracked them far enough before they started to bolt that we can get a few ideas of where they’re going,” Bull says, “We’ve already got people en route.”

“Good, good,” Lavellan nods, arms crossed, “Hey, this guy looks like a pizza after it met a pot hole.”

“Eloquent,” Cullen says, “And accurate.”

“Can Dorian even do anything with that?”

“I’m sure implying that he can’t is the best way to make sure that he does.”

-

Lavellan taps her fingers on the edge of the desk, frowning as she stares out the window. The sun is clear through sparse clouds and some of the Inquistion’s lieutenants are sparring in the yard outside. Away from the boss’ favorite hydrangeas of course.

Sutherland can’t remember anyone who made it out of that one unscathed after the Boss found out about it. Even the Iron Bull got a strip torn out and through him. Don’t mess with the Boss’ hydrangeas.

Sutherland shifts nervously on the balls of his feet. He owes everything to the Inquisition. They took him in. They trained him. They gave him experience. They allowed him to grow and build his own group, they let him work on his own ideas and projects and let him pursue assignments on his own terms.

If the Inquisition says  _no_  here, if the Inquisitor says  _no_  here, there’s nothing Sutherland can do to change her mind. Frankly, he’d have no right to it, either. Sutherland’s got no rights to anything at all, considering that they gave him everything he has.

He was a nobody before. A nobody kid running around not knowing what he was doing and now he’s here and he’s who he is now and it’s all because the Inquisition gave him a chance.

This is just one more favor in a series of favors that Sutherland doesn’t think he can ever pay back except with the promise that he’ll always be on the Inquisition’s - or at least, Inquisitor Lavellan’s - side.

“I’ll allow it,” Lavellan finally says. “You’re group can operate on Inquisition lands. You can be independent of us. I trust you, Sutherland. And there are many other people here who trust you. I know that you won’t ever do anything that the Inquisition will look poorly on.”

Lavellan turns to him and smiles, “And I hope that we can become good allies once you find your footing out there. The next time you come in here, I hope it will be as my equal as a fellow boss.”

“Inquisitor,” Sutherland feels his breath rush out of his lungs, “Thank you. Thank you.”

He rushes forward to take her hand. She smiles warmly. Sutherland didn’t think organized crime could be so good for a person. Mentally and emotionally and stuff.

“Go tell your friends,” Lavellan says and Sutherland takes that for the dismissal that it is and turns to leave her in as respectful way as possible.

He passes the Iron Bull as he’s heading out the door and the man takes one look at him before nodding and clapping him on the shoulder, “Congratulations, Sutherland. Don’t make me have to fuck you up one day. Your face is sad enough as it is.”

“Thank you?”

The large man nods one more time before entering the office Sutherland just left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.


	366. Chapter 366

Ellana Lavellan's car looks as pristine, black, and menacing as the day it got off the assembly line.

Bull waves at it as the car comes to a quiet and clean stop.

Ellana Lavellan, herself, looks as pristine, pretty, and professional as the day she signed her contract with the Inquisition, signing herself up to join the Inquistion’s fleet of couriers, transporters, and other miscellaneous and somewhat dubious movers of various  _sundry_  things.

She walks around to the passenger side of her car, opens the passenger door, and grabs her passenger, dragging him to his feet and around the car.

The man struggles but Ellana Lavellan is a  _professional_  at handling her cargo and she brings him to the Iron Bull with very little problem.

Bull pulls her payment out of his pocket, counting wad of bills before holding it out to her. Ellana passes him the electronic key to her target’s muting cuffs, examining the wad before she says, “Can I get some more?”

“You know I don’t control the pay out,” Bull says, “You’d have to take it up with the Ambassador and Inquisitor.”

Evelyn would probably say yes, because no one ever says no to Ellana Lavellan. Especially not when she’s one of their best couriers. Probably one of the best couriers in all of Thedas.

“You sold me out to the Qun! You  _are_  a sell out bitch!”

Her cargo is an extremist who belongs to one of the several groups that have formed around the old god Fen’Harel.

The Inquisition received notice that this particular man has risen quite high in the ranks and was going to complete some sort of hand off. According to Varric and Edric’s contacts - with confirmation from Sera’s Jennies - that hand off is for some very,  _very_  shoddily refined lyrium. Dangerous shit.

“He’s been like this  _all_  night,” Ellana says, lower lip jutting out into a moue. Bull resists the urge to pinch her lower lip just to mess with her. “It’s been  _traitor to the elves_  this,  _shemlen fucker_  that,  _mindless puppet_ blah, blah blah, blah, blah. Also? Apparently? College means nothing? And higher education is a farce? And there’s no worth in further study in anything? Ever? I wasn’t paying attention, honestly.”

“You know what?” Bull pulls out his own wallet and hands her his credit card, “Go fucking wild.”

Ellana beams.

“You betrayed your own kind for  _money_? To the  _Qun_?” The man boggles.

“You dumb fuck,” Bull looks down at the elf, “I’m with the Inquisition. She didn’t  _sell you_  out or  _betray your kind_. Come on,  _representatives from your kind_  have questions for you on why you’re bringing tainted lyrium into their paths and drawing heat from human police.”

They were tipped off to this guy by the Dalish Council of Wycome, who had noticed that tainted lyrium had been leaking into the city’s water system and that the possible source was towards the old Dalish alienage.

And they wanted answers about it before weapons turned.

“Cool, cool,” Ellana’s already got her phone out and is tapping away at something, “Hey, hey, babe, babe, babe, check it. I’m gonna get this for our cat.”

Bull’s going to get about a million notices of his card being run. Chances are most of it will be stuff for their cat.

Bull makes sure to keep a firm hold on mouthy asshole’s shoulder as he leans to look at Ellana’s phone. It’s a cat castle.

“You’ll have to put the other one away,” Bull says. “I don’t think our living room has the floor space for both.”

“Aw dang,” Ellana sighs, “Okay, no cat castle. I’m buying a new litter box.”

“Right,” Bull says and starts leading mouthy asshole away - all the while mouthy asshole is continuing to yell shit - “I can’t believe you went three hours with  _this_.”

“It’s my job,” Ellana calls out, “See you later! Bye!”

-

If you want to move something - especially something as strictly controlled and regulated as lyrium - you’ll want to get the Dalish to move it.

It might be stereotyping, but there’s no group of people as good, as efficient, as dependable, for as clever at moving things very quickly across borders, walls, divides, and military watches as the Dalish. Considering that their own families are usually what they have to smuggle across borders you’d expect quick, certain, and dependable results.

The Dalish have survived to this day by being able to move through borders fast at the first sign of trouble. Things may have changed and new laws may have been put in place but there are certain things that remain, as always, the same.

“If you’re going to be recruiting former Templars you’ll need lyrium. If anything it would be to help wean them down,” Cullen had said, “Doing it cold is too risky.”

And Cullen, expert at going cold, would know.

“The Chantry will never agree to cutting the Inquisition in,” Leliana pointed out, “If we’re going to be supplying lyrium it will be contraband.”

“You’re going to need to tap the Dalish and the Carta,” Josephine concluded. “The Carta to produce and package, and the Dalish to move it.”

Two hover-bikes buzz over the sand of the Wastes, the light of the moons gleaming off of their sleek panels as dust kicks up behind them.

“I’ve got eyes on the Lavellans,” Harding says, and Evelyn claps her shoulder before heading towards the loading bay doors. “Lucky, they must have outrun the sandstorm.”

“I’m sure Bull will be happy about that,” Evelyn said, “He always gets worried about the sandstorms.”

“I do not,” Bull calls out from the other room, “They just get sand into everything and it’s a pain in the ass to get rid of.”

Evelyn rolls her eyes, pulling out a metal folding chair and plopping down in it as she waits for the hangar doors to slide open.

The Iron Bull comes to join her a few moments later, “They cut it close.”

Evelyn nods.

Even one day late and they would have a bunker full of extremely unstable Templars.

Cullen and Cassandra do their best, but sometimes the need is very powerful and when there are so many people around you with the same sort of manic desire it can build and turn into something more powerful than normal.

“Edric says that his sister is pissed,” Bull continues, “Thirty thousand credits worth of her best ampules snatched by the Chantry.”

“A traitor in her ranks and her drops compromised,” Evelyn adds on, “We’ll deal with it later.”

“We better. She’s  _pissed_ ,” Bull stresses as the hangar bay doors open, revealing a wide expanse of sand and bright, pale moonlight.

The two hover bikes slow as they come into the hangar. One is sleek black and yellow and the other is black and green.

Both bikes power down, gently descending about two feet until their stands deploy and stabilize the bikes on the cement.

Both riders twist around and tap open their bike’s cargo compartments as Bull and Evelyn get up to help them unload.

Mahanon, on the black and green bike, holds out a small black case, quickly tapping in the security code. It opens with a soft hiss, cool mist spilling out along with a bright blue glow.

“Five hundred ampules,” Mahanon says, holding the case out to Evelyn. “Pure processed. Refined quality of at least eighty five to eighty eight. Best we could get.”

“The price was high,” Ellana says, pulling her helmet off. She pulls a smaller case from one of her compartments and holds it out to Evelyn. “And you’ll want to look at this. Someone’s been distributing the Red. For  _cheap_. And I mean  _real_  cheap. You could get  _ten_  of these cases for the price of  _one_  set of Three-Processed Blue with a quality of forty. Someone’s trying to undercut on Inquisition turf.”

“Probably the same source that ratted our lines out to the Chantry,” Bull says. “How’d you miss the storm?”

Ellana grins up at him, “Worried?”

“About our carpet? Yeah.”

Mahanon pulls his own helmet off, dismounting as he starts to pull ampule cases off of his cargo compartment, “We were almost detained at Old Sahrnia, but one of de Fer’s colleagues stepped in for us. The city officials there hate us. Good thing you got in good with their security enforcement, Trevelyan. If you had us smuggle this out of Verchiel you’d be  _fucked_.”

“Lucky we didn’t,” Evelyn says, “Rest up. I don’t have anything for the two of you for now. Harding will process the payment. The two of you can head out tomorrow morning. And take Bull with you, he gets  _so_  twitchy when he’s worried about you.”

“I do  _not_.”

Ellana laughs, hugging the Iron Bull’s arm as she leans onto him, “Aw, babe.”

Mahanon rolls his eyes, “Finish unloading before you flirt. Where’s the refrigeration unit? We need to flash freeze some of this.”


	367. Chapter 367

When Ellana is twenty five she makes a bargain to leave the sea for the land and the sky. It is not a bargain she makes lightly. It is not a bargain she makes very quickly. It is one she debates for years and years and years.

She is not the first of her kind to choose the land and the sky over the deep blue water, and she will not be the last. She is nothing different or special in this.

On one hand, she wants to see more and learn more and explore and go far away where she can see everything new and different and how everything is also the same. On the other - she would leave her family behind. Her friends. Her home.

Oh, her family could come to  _her_  but it won’t be the same.

When you choose to leave the sea like the way Ellana means to, it is never the same.

In the end what makes her choose is Mahanon’s question to her, when she is twenty four and he is twenty six and well on his way to becoming a well renowned traveler of the Tide Guard and she is still lingering in between the foam, unsure of her fate.

Mahanon and Ellana are curled up together, arms locked so they don’t drift apart as they float along buoyed by the soft lap of the tide, watching the clear stars and the glowing moons. And Mahanon asks, “Could you be happy here? With me?”

Ellana wanted to, of course, say  _yes, of course_. But a lump formed in her throat, like sand, like grit, like a pearl.

Her eyes stung and for a moment her vision was blurry with rainbow tears as she turned to him, feeling the glittering liquid slide out the corners of her eyes.

“No.”

She would be safe. She would be secure. She would have her future planned out as far as the horizon and beyond. Ellana would undoubtedly have happy moments. She would have moments where she would laugh and smile and dance and be jovial.

But overall?

 _A lifetime of regret_.

Mahanon blinked away the pearls in his eyes before they could form and he nodded and they both returned to staring at the night sky, pretending not to notice each other’s crying even as the pearls dissolved and washed away into the sea.

“I will visit you,” Mahanon had promised, “Stay by the water when you can. Not too close.”

Of course, never too close.

The sea is a jealous mother.

For each son and daughter that leaves, she never forgets.

And if Ellana ever got too close to the sea again, she would surely be reclaimed.

-

She tastes a bad storm on the wind. A foul storm. A distasteful storm. Not made of salt and brine, even though it curls and travels over the sea, but of something ashen. Something barren and hot and dry.

Ellana peers past the delicate curtains that Krem and Stitches had bought her for her last name day over the roofs towards the horizon and she can taste on the air something  _foul_.

Something  _wrong_.

And as Ellana tastes this foul wind she hears and  _feels_  a crack from her chest.

Her hands shoot up to grasp at the dragon’s tooth and she looks down at it, and watches as it begins to darken.

Her pearl tears begin to trickle out of the tooth and Ellana knows without a doubt that something has happened.

The Iron Bull is in trouble.

Ellana runs out of their house, weeping tooth in hand, and runs as fast as she can to the outskirts of the city. Past the walls, past the roads.

Her feet are bare and her skirts are a mess and her hair tangles and whips at her own face and Ellana still is not fast enough at all.

(For a moment she wishes for the speed she used to have so long ago. When she was still one with the sea.)

Ellana makes it to the top of the hill, out of breath as she turns to look over the city, towards the coast and the dark clouds she can taste at the edge of sight.

(She may have left the sea but she will always be part of it. She can  _feel_  it. The wrongness.)

Ellana holds the tooth in her hands, feeling her tears melting back into liquid and she raises her head and releases one, long high pitched note.

The wind gathers around her, tasting of salt and cold and biting, and she feels her skin burn and fleck away a little but Ellana waits and she waits and she holds her ground even as she can see the tips of her hair evaporating.

Her brother arrives moments later, hair still wet with waves, bits of bubbles and sea foam clinging to his eyelashes and glimmering over his neck and arms.

“I must go to the sea,” Ellana says to him, “Something has taken my husband.”

Mahanon’s eyes widen, “You can’t be serious. Go back? If you go back  _there will be nothing left of you_. Tell me where your husband was set to sail and I will get him for you.”

Ellana shakes her head, “No. I must go to him.”

“And  _die_?”

Ellana bites her lower lip, salt stinging her eyes (the call of the sea, the sorrow of the waves, the furious and possessive righteousness of the ocean) and nods.

“Ellana no,” Mahanon shakes his head, grasping her shoulders and shaking her, “I will go. Go back to your house and wait. I will bring him back to you.”

“But the storm - “

“Something foul, yes. Wicked things at work. I know. But it is not your responsibility.”  _Because you left_. “It is  _mine_. Go back to your house and keep your eyes to the horizon. I swear to you. I’ll bring him back.”

Mahanon smiles, sharp and beautiful, “After all. You are happy here. With him. How could I ever deny my only sister that?”


	368. Chapter 368

“I think you're being a prat,” Mahanon says apropos of nothing and Ellana blinks at her brother before looking around to see if maybe he’s talking to a kneazle that escaped from its play pen or perhaps even a free roaming nug.

“I’m talking to  _you_ , sister,” Mahanon says.

“Oh, well, that’s not new. You always think I’m being annoying,” Ellana says, “Is there anything in particular I was doing right now? Aside from breathing?”

“You’re in a mood,” Mahanon scowls, “Because I told the Iron Bull that you have feelings for him and that everyone knows it except him. You would  _think_  that a former Unmentionable for the Qun would be able to tell such a thing, but apparently not. What a copcchia.”

Ellana rolls her eyes, “Before we get in on calling people dullards and clay-brained oafs, I’d like to first point out that I am  _not_  sulking. Perhaps for the first time in like, a year, I’m not sulking about this. I am  _coping_  with it and I am getting over it like a fully grown, mature,  _adult_.”

“I think I preferred you sulking then, because this is ridiculous.”

“I was immature,” Ellana says, turning just in time to catch one of their three eyed ravens - newly hatched, still black around the edges and not yet fully white - trying to steal one of the cookies Ellana just brought out of the oven. Ellana points her wand at it and raps the table next to its talons. The raven caws in protest but hops away and then flaps onto Ellana’s arm, hopping and clinging its way up to her shoulder before fluffing up and settling in for a nap. “Now I am getting over it. I am forgiving, I am forgetting, and I am going to make sure I put this all behind me.”

“You were cross with Maxwell for  _months_. You had him groveling at your  _feet_.”

“In hindsight it was very mean of me. But he did  _lie_.”

“One, he didn’t  _lie_. He  _obscured the truth_ , a very Slytherin thing to do that you’d be proud of it he didn’t do it to you. Two, you were understandably irritated because he did end up bringing  _the Iron Bull to your house_  for a few weeks and you had to just  _live_  with he man you’ve had a crush on since you were a teenager being obtuse in the same place as you for twenty four hour periods.”

Mahanon pauses, wrinkles his nose and sneers, “Forgive and forget? How very  _Hufflepuff_  of you, sister. Were you addled in a duel? Maybe one of the Hawkes hit you on the head recently?”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“It  _isn’t_. It’s just not a  _you_  thing. You’re still holding onto that time that one dracolisc decided it liked me better than you when you were  _four_.”

Ellana glares at him, “I had nursed that dracolisc since it was a little egg and you just  _happened_  to be in the direction it was facing when it hatched and you weren’t even  _there, there_. You were  _walking by and it just happened to put its eyes on you first_.”

“See?”

Ellana reaches up and lightly brushes her fingertips against the raven’s breast, it nips at her finger and tucks itself in.

“It’s unlike you to just ignore something like this,” Mahanon says. “Have you considered talking to the Iron Bull about it?”

“I told him that I’m not expecting anything from him.”

“Why not?”

“Well why should I?” Ellana asks, “Just because someone likes a you doesn’t mean you’re obligated to like them back.”

“Well he hasn’t gotten a chance to figure out if he  _could_  like you back or not,” Mahanon says, “The entire time you’ve been working together you’ve been in a snit about him being a snail-paced block head. The only you he knows is you as a teenager in the middle of a fight to the death and you as a slighted adult. He’s never learned about  _you_  the witch who’s figured out legilimency, become an animagus, and dabbled in alchemy on the side for fun.”

-

“Kaaras, listen, I know you kind of just like to chill around as a giant tiger and that’s cool. That’s great. That’s wonderful, darling, but listen,” Maxwell holds the tiger’s giant head in his hands, “We’ve got an  _auror_  in the house that’s  _not me_  and  _he might not be so cool with it_. We need to pretend like the three of us haven’t broken a few dozen wizarding rules on the regular, okay?”

Kaaras look very disappointed and very sad.

“Yes, yes, I know. This helps you calm down when you’re overwhelmed and understandably this is the perfect situation for being overwhelmed. But maybe, maybe,  _maybe_  hold it in for a few days?”

“We can just have this room be blocked off,” Ellana says from the doorway, “Kaaras, I’ve put your rabbits in their pen. The Iron Bull is watching them, they like his hands apparently.”

Maxwell and Kaaras share mutual looks, universal looks that go beyond species.

 _You like his hands you mean_.

“I’ll stay with Kaaras. If he comes in I’ll just say I was practicing my transfiguration,” Ellana says, “You can entertain  _your_  houseguest.”

Ellana gives Maxwell a very sharp look as she closes the door behind her, going to sit down on the lounge chair by the window, patting her legs.

Kaaras pulls his head from Maxwell’s hands and goes to lay his head on her lap, eyes closing and purring as Ellana starts scratching his ears.

“You can’t leave me to this by myself. Besides, you’re the one who’s a professional beast caretaker. You have to tell me and the Iron Bull what to do.”

“Perhaps you should have thought about that before bringing a dracoslic home.” Ellana smiles very prettily and very meanly. “I’ll write a letter home for you but don’t expect any more help from me on this one, Max. You are well and truly on your own for this.”


	369. Chapter 369

Things that Mahanon has taught her:

When you wander the shadows you will feel neither hunger nor thirst. But the shadows will present you with temptation.

You will find an offering as you walk. A bowl of eggs. A wooden board with cheese and bread. A leaf-lined bowl filled with nuts. Honeycomb that glitters gold and white. A clay jar full of cream.

And you will not be hungry, nor will you feel any thirst, until these are presented to you. But you must not eat them. They are not  _yours_.

For you do not know what lay those eggs. You do not know who placed that board. You do not know who lined that bowl. You do not know from what grove that honey was gathered. You do not know what lies at the bottom of that jar.

You are not the god, the queen, the ghost, the lord, the fair one it was put there for. And you must never take what is not yours, what is not offered, and what is not promised. Not here.

If it was an offering made to you, you would know without hesitation. You would  _know_  it was yours.

So you must not eat it. You must not drink it.

If you choose to walk the roads of roots and stones and shadows and dark water you must be prepared for the light to never touch you the same way again.

You must be ready for the world of light and sun and moon and stars to slip away from you, to pull away, trying to trick you and push you and shove you and drop you back into the shadows you came from.

So when you return you must hold your ground, anchor yourself, like a sword through the soil, so that if the world wants to yank itself out from around you it must be ready to shred itself int he process.

Exist in a way so that the world cannot deny you.

The shortest distance between two points is whatever way you did not take, so do not think on it.

The way you take is the only way. Don’t look back. Do not regret. Do not doubt.

The way can sense you when you falter, and will ensnare you quite gleefully for it.

These are all things that Ellana has found applicable to her life post curse.

“We should go to Val Royeaux,” Evelyn says, “Everyone passes through Val Royeaux. I’m sure that even if we don’t find this person, we’ll at least find a lead.”

“But what if he hasn’t come down from Tevinter?” Ellana asks.

“Then we can go back up towards Rivain,” Maxwell says, “No harm done.”

Ellana closes her eyes and she sees his face so clearly.

“What is his name?” Maxwell asks, quietly. “Do you still see him?”

“Awake I cannot cross the sea to him again,” Ellana says, “And I do not think I will ever achieve the sort of clarity I existed in for the past year or so. Not naturally. And no one ever referred to him by a name.”

Ellana picked up  _some_  of the language. Not much. Not anything she could use to find him, she knows that much.

“It is, however,” Ellana says, “Without question that I would know him by sight, by sound, should we come across him. No matter where that is or when that is - be it tomorrow or ten years from now. I would know him.”

-

“You know, several years ago, when I came to you and Maxwell in dreams and asked you to help me, I didn’t think that it would turn around to you coming to ask for  _me_ ,” Ellana laughs. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself in trouble, now, have you?”

Evelyn and Maxwell hastily rush over to her, and pull her aside, casting nervous looks at the people around them. Evelyn shushes Ellana even as Maxwell does his best to cast reassuring and charming smiles at the people giving the strange, loud, and stunningly eye-catching elf the eye.

“We’re not really - “ Evelyn starts, and stops, looking around before dragging Ellana towards the sparse trees. “Listen. Ah. We are - well. It’s complicated.”

“Un-complicate it.”

“They think Evelyn murdered the Divine,” Maxwell says, “Also, you may have noticed, but there’s a very strange hole in the sky.”

“Oh, that,” Ellana turns to look over her shoulder, “That was rather troublesome. You ought to get somebody to fix that.”

Evelyn holds out her hand, “Can you fix this part first?”

Ellana blinks, taking Evelyn’s hand and holding it up to her face, inspecting it closely.

“My, my, my,” Ellana hums, “Interesting.  _Did_  you murder the Divine?”

“No!” Evelyn says, vehemently.

“Did Maxwell?”

“No!” Maxwell sputters.

“Less interesting,” Ellana says. “This can’t be fixed. It isn’t broken. It’s  _changed_. But familiar.”

Ellana frowns, “Old magic, this. How did this happen to you?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Again.  _Un_ -complicate it.”

“She’s forgotten,” Maxwell answers before Evelyn can. “She’s gone and forgotten literally all of it. Could you ask your very powerful and very strange father to help?”

“I would,” Ellana says, “I rather think I should, actually. But say, tell me. Even if this entire sky situation is solved, you’d still have a murder on your hands, no?”

“Yes?”

Ellana hums. “And the humans are still at war with each other?”

“There’s a smattering of elves and dwarves in there,” Maxwell points out.

Ellana hums, releasing Evelyns hand as she thinks.

“And are you somewhat in danger in this situation? Would you say that you are in need of protection?” Ellana asks.

“Probably?” Evelyn and Maxwell exchange glances. “That’s…sort of why we called you?”

“You probably ought to have called the Iron Bull’s Chargers,” Ellana says, “But good thing you called me first, this way I can be here while  _they’re_  here.” Ellana smiles, “Perfect. Now we have a reason. Well. I have a reason to call on him. I knew I chose right with the two of you. Now, while one of you gets that sorted I’ll start in on sorting out this sky of yours. I’ll ask Mahanon for help. He’s been going somewhat stir-crazy just him and Father at home.”


	370. Chapter 370

Mahanon considers turning around and going right back out into the sweltering garage and back into his stupidly hot car and driving away into the absurdly hot rest of the world that isn’t his sister’s air conditioned house. But he doesn’t because he just bought about seven gallons worth of ice cream and he worked  _hard_  for the money to do this and he's not going to waste it because he walked in on his sister and her husband sitting at their kitchen table looking very grim while staring at reams of paper in front of them.

“What’s wrong with you two nerds now?” Mahanon asks, deciding to just bite it and start dragging in his seven gallons worth of ice cream.

About nine to ten months of the year he has no access to electronics, wifi, and reliable confectionaries that won’t give parasites, food poisoning, or some other sort of disease.

He’s going to fucking savor it, god damn it.

Mahanon would think, for normal people, it would be marital issues and perhaps a divorce that’s on the table judging by how grim the two look. But Ellana and Bull wouldn’t have decided to get legally married if there was any chance that they’d split up later and have to go through more official channels to do that.

He’d also say it could be finances, but if anything the two are living way under their means and are saving a stunning amount of money. Especially factoring in that Mahanon pays rent on a room he only uses for about two months out of a calendar year.

“The con is upon us,” Ellana says grimly, eyes narrowed at the paper in front of her, “Mahanon, give me the Triple Cream Crunch.”

“I didn't buy any,” Mahanon says. And it’s true, he didn’t, because if he did he knew that he’d have to give her some. And by some he means the entire gallon and as much as he loves his sister he’d also like to get to taste the ice cream he buys with his own hard earned money.

“I am assaulted on all sides,” Ellana closes her eyes and covers her face with her hands. “Every side.”

“I brought you and Bull Birthday Cake,” Mahanon says, pulling a carton out of a plastic bag and thumping it on the table, sliding it with a sharp shove across the table. It leaves a streak of condensation. Bull takes it, rips the plastic around the lid off and holds it out towards Ellana.

Mahanon’s okay with them eating all the Birthday Cake flavor, it makes his teeth hurt way too much and he only ever eats a couple of spoons of it anyway.

“What’s wrong with the con?” Mahanon quickly checks the papers over Bull’s shoulder on his way towards the freezer. “Did you not get your passes? Your hotel suddenly drop you?”

“There are…too many panels,” Ellana groans, “And most of them ticketed. I can’t be in five places at once.”

“Pick the one you’d regret missing least.”

Ellana waves some paper around, “But! How can I choose? The panel on lore and world building with inclusion towards minorities and alternative energy sources? The workshop on realistic armor crafting? What about this? This! Language crafting for science and speculative fiction featuring prominent guest speakers from the industry! All three happening at once in two different halls!”

“I’d go to the alternative energy source one.”

“Of course you would,” Bull muses. “Hey, while you’re in there, can you put the chicken thighs in some water to defrost?”

Mahanon chucks a package of chicken thighs straight into the sink. This frees up enough room for him to jam in a gallon of Salted Caramel Swirl.

Mahanon brings out some frozen waffles, checks the box - there’s six small waffles left -, and also throws that onto the counter. He replaces the box with Orange Dream.

“Don’t eat that ice cream, you’re putting it in between some waffles for a sandwich,” He says. “Also, we’re having curly fries. Why did you buy curly fries?”

Mahanon shakes the bag, “It’s never even been opened.”

“There was a craving,” Ellana says, “But then we bought it and the craving went away and we’ve been waiting for it to come back ever since. I don’t have enough bodies to go to all these panels and still compete in the tournaments.”

“Be less of a nerd, focus your nerd,” Mahanon advises.

Bull laughs, “Says the ultra nerd.”

“But all my nerd interests overlap,” Mahanon says, “Geology? Photography? Geography? Astronomy? Meteorology? All handily taken care of in one nature hike. What are you going to be doing at this con, Bull?”

“I’ll be going to whichever panel she wants me to be at,” Bull says.

Mahanon rolls his eyes.

Bull is so stupidly head over heels for his sister, it’s tooth achingly adorable.

“Bull is the only person I trust to go to a panel and delight in it for me in the right ways and be able to relate it back to me in an enjoyable way,” Ellana says, “Also he likes the exact same things as me - mostly - so it’s cool.”

“I only have two panels I really want to go to,” Bull says, “And they’re on separate days so I’m fine. Besides, a lot of the panels Ellana’s looking at are pretty interesting.”

Mahanon shakes the frozen waffles in the Iron Bull’s direction until he gets up and takes them, going towards the toaster to warm them up.

Mahanon takes Bull’s vacated space, “Who else is going with you?”

“Sera, Dagna, Rylen, the Hawke family, Anders, and Fenris,” Ellana ticks off, “I think Maxwell, but that’s because he’s judging at a tournament so he’s not actually free to go to panels with me.”

“What the hell is Maxwell judging?”

“He’s an organizer for the cosplay events and he’s also really good at  _Magic,”_ Ellana says, “He’s still ranking even though he doesn’t play as often.”

“I don’t know if my opinion of him is rising or lowering,” Mahanon muses, holding out a spoon to his sister as they start digging in on a carton of Peaches and Cream Crumble, “Can you buy me some t-shirts?”


	371. Chapter 371

“You know, if I had known back in ye olden times that you would become the preeminent Minister of Magic - “

“Please don’t put that kind of hope in front of me,” Evelyn says, brow furrowed as she stares down at her tea with dead eyes, “Maker, Ellana, don’t put that on me. For all we know they could change their mind. Or I could be assassinated. Or - “

Ellana continues on as though Evelyn hadn’t spoken at all, “I would have cozied up to you more than I did Maxwell. I might have even chosen to move into your house instead of his. Or gotten into a society wide scandal with you over him. Really, Evelyn, I’m surprised at your ambition. It’s quite attractive, really. I’m seeing you in a whole new light. Power hungry looks good on you.”

Evelyn groans without her mouth moving, her face a frozen mask of dead-eyed doom.

“Untrue,” Kaaras says as he slathers some toast in butter and puts it on a plate in front of Evelyn, who just continues to stare off into her tea with that thousand yard stare, “You’d have still fallen for Max. And me. Maybe.”

“You? Definitely. Max?  _Maybe_ ,” Ellana corrects. “Kaaras, you’re good at maths, what are her chances of getting Minister of Magic by thirty, you think?”

Before Kaaras can answer they all hear the faint  _pop_  followed by the chimes Kaaras charmed to ring whenever someone apparates on their property. Maxwell opens the kitchen door moments later, looking quite dazed and red in the face with snow dusted in his hair.

“Maker and Andraste and everyone in between,” Maxwell says, “I just came in from headquarters and it’s all over the news. The lead party backing the current MM is fractured and they no longer hold a majority. Evelyn’s in the lead to take over the next term provided elections follow the popular house votes. We’ve got to start campaigning hard  _now_. Maker knows that the old blood isn’t going to side with Evelyn unless we butter them up good.”

Ellana’s smile is practically a lethal weapon.

“My time to shine, darlings. Ta. Don’t wait up, I’ve got some house visits to make. I expect I’ll have news come morning,” Ellana pushes up from the table, kisses Evelyn on the head - Evelyn lets out a groan that actually rattles her teacup without moving her face at all -, Kaaras on the cheek, and pinches Maxwell’s nose as she takes his cloak, throws it over her shoulders, and apparates away the second she’s got one foot out the door.

“That woman,” Maxwell says, staring over his shoulder where Ellana was, sounding quite dazed and besotted, “Is going to be the end of days and I, for one, am going to enjoy it immensely as it happens. Now that Ellana’s on the case it’s practically settled. You’re going to be the next Minister of Magic, cousin. Shall we begin writing your speech?”

-

It should be strange for the Iron Bull to say that he recognizes someone by the feeling of their eyes glaring at the back of his head, but he does.

He has the particular sense that he would know Ellana Lavellan anywhere by the feel of her eyes digging graves into his back. Though he is somewhat surprised at the context for this. Considering that he is currently - rather troublesomely - buried alive in a lot of rubble, featuring a broken arm, shattered glass along his legs, and what’s some sort of iron rod jammed up through his thigh, Bull didn’t think he’d be seeing anyone any time soon. If ever.

That is probably being a little fatalistic, but the odds are not in his favor.

He’d apparate out if he didn’t think he’d accidentally leave something behind.

“Hey,” Bull says. He’s coherent and conscious, unless he’s hallucinating Ellana Lavellan glaring at his head, “Fancy meeting you here?”

Bull feels something slide along the back of his neck, and Bull can move just enough to turn his good eye towards whatever it is.

Scales.

“So if Trevelyan’s a bird, and you’re a snake, what’s Adaar?”

The snake winds around his throat once, before she starts to slide down his body, pausing at the glass parts.

Bull’s eye flicks down and he can barely make out her head turning towards him, tongue flicking out.

He never knew a snake could look so judgmental.

“Yeah,” Bull says, “That parts a mess. You here to get me out?”

The snake slides off of his body, but he can feel her occasionally brush against his leg as she scopes out his situation.

“It’d be cool if you could talk in that form, but then again you don’t talk to me when you have a person mouth so I guess it isn’t that much difference,” Bull muses. “I’m talking out loud because it’s either this or I risk falling unconscious and possibly never wake up again. Don’t feel obligated to answer me or anything. Or even listen to me. Again, not like you do normally.”

Bull stares at some crumbled ceiling that’s about a foot to a foot and a half from his face.

“For what it’s worth - I really am sorry.”

Bull listens for any sound of her, and gets nothing. He looks down and the snake is gone.

Figures.

Bull sort of drifts in and out of it for a while, almost drifts off for real, when he feels dust float down onto his face.

Bull’s eye closes against his reflexively, and he starts to hear the sound of stone and cement being moved.

“We’re almost there! Chief? Chief? Can you hear me?” Bull hears Krem yelling.

“Not that one!” A voice yells out, sharp, “Don’t move that rock, you’ll cause a collapse right onto his leg and snap the thing off. This one first, we can leverage that one out later with support.”

“Aclassi?” Bull yells out, “Lavellan?”

There’s a cacophony of people yelling his name and the sounds of rubble being moved speeds up just a little.

“Hold on, Chief, we’re coming for you,” Krem yells, “We’re doing it slow. But we’re almost at you.”

“Two more layers,” Lavellan yells down to him, “Two more layers of building and we’ll have you out. Don’t fall asleep. Keep talking to me.”

A gleaming light that almost hurts Bull’s eye suddenly slips through the cracks, and the silvery phantom animal - a wolf - pads to his side, and Lavellan’s voice calls down, clear and soft, “I’ll listen. I promise. Just keep talking. I’m with you.”


	372. Chapter 372

Ellana wakes up to darkness, both her arms outstretched above her, hot tears in her eyes, and a sense of sorrow so profoundly fresh and deep it scares her. And for the first time in a long time, she remembers nothing. No new memory, no sense of certain loss for the death of one of her sibling-pieces who helped to make her (willing or not), no new power.

Just Ellana, her arms pale and empty stretched out in front of her, and a deep and vast echoing in her chest so deep it might as well be the darkness around her.

Her left arm feels numb from about mid-bicep down. Ellana flexes her hands, and finds that only the left one moves, despite it being numb. Her right hand remains stretched out into the dark, unresponsive.

Panic begins to stir in her chest as she sits up, and confusion replaces the panic as she seems to…pass through herself.

Ellana’s hands, both right and left close and open at her will as she sits up, but straight through her arm is a second right hand and when Ellana turns back she sees herself still lying back, right arm outstretched.

The left, scarred stump.

There are tears in her other self’s eyes.

“What is this?” Ellana asks herself and a voice answers to her right -

“All that is left.”

Ellana turns.

He has her eyes.

Or perhaps, she has his.

“It’s  _you_ ,” Ellana breathes out. At long last.

Her missing part.

She is overcome with so much: satisfaction, vindication, relief on one hand, rage on the other.

He made her. He is a piece of her. But also - he died for her. But didn’t he also play a hand in killing her the first time? Destroying her? Did he not take so much from her? Isn’t he the reason she’s in this situation?

A stranger living someone else’s life? A life that was supposed to be her own?

Did he not  _kill her brother_?

“I knew you weren’t dead,” Ellana says, taking in the face that seems to have haunted the people around her, a specter that emerged from her own visage. He is the reason why no one trusts her. He is the reason why she is no longer allowed the life she left behind. “You don’t have it in you to die.”

Solas just looks back at her with something like pity in the grey eyes they share.

“I am not here,” Solas says, “I am not real. I am gone. And you know it. I am dead, unmade, and beyond all reach. Why do you keep looking for me, Ellana? What do you hope to find? Gain?”

“Answers!” Ellana throws her arms out, “I know nothing! I understand nothing! I want answers from you why did you do it? What did you hope to accomplish? What is my purpose here? What sort of mess have you left for me to clean up for you?”

Solas shakes his head, “I cannot answer you. I am not here.”

“Then  _where are you_? What are you  _doing_?”

“I am here. In you. And nowhere else. I do nothing unless you wish it. I am a dream that you have made out of the pieces you remember,” Solas replies, “You know this. You know that I gave you everything I had, everything I ever had. I submitted to your will. I would have thought this would have made you happy.”

“Everything? I have  _nothing_ ,” Ellana snarls. “I have no  _life_. I have no  _friends_. I have no  _family_. Everything I touch - everything I look upon - it belongs to another woman. I search out who I am and the place I belong and doors close to me, windows are shuttered.  _No one trusts me_. No one wants me.  _Everywhere I turn I am outcast._ How is this to make me happy? Tell me. Tell me what you meant to do by this. Tell me.”

“I cannot,” Solas answers, “I am a dream and less than memory. I am only what you already know.”

“Then of what use are you? Why do I dream you?” Ellana stands up, marching up to him and glaring him in the eye.

How strange.

He seemed taller before. But Ellana looks him straight in the eye, and for the first time she realizes that they are equals. For all that he is dead, an image conjured by her own mind.

“I have no answers,” Ellana says, “Only questions. There is a man who I loved without question, there is a man I  _still love_  - and yet I can’t remember his face. His name. I remember all the ways he made me happy, all the ways he made me  _feel good_ , all the ways he made me feel  _better_ , and all of the times we spent together. But in every memory I uncover, in every memory I search for, the vital information I need to finding him slips away. Taken.”

“You dreamed me to bring you the last piece that you have been looking for,” Solas says when Ellana stops to catch her breath. “Turn. Look.  _Remember_  at last. There is no one left. There is nothing left. Everything we are and everything we had, we leave to you.”

Ellana hears movement behind her and she turns.

The room begins to form, and Ellana sees herself lying down in bed, right arm outstretched.

And then a hand reaches up and grasps hers, pulling her hand down.

Ellana watches as a window materializes, the memory coming to life, and as the light from the moons begins to bring details out in the room Ellana sees.

It feels like she’s been punched, as she watches her past self slowly turn, and another hand raises to wipe tears from her eyes.

“Hey,” he says, “What’s the matter? What’s wrong? We can still call it off, you know. There are other ways to deal with this. With him.”

“I’m scared,” Ellana mouths as her memory self says the words, “Bull. I feel like I want this too much. I want it to be over so badly it  _hurts_. And - the idea that after the next forty eight hours? It’ll be over? And then. And then we can finally fucking  _move on_  and leave this behind us.”

Ellana feels her right hand begin to shake and she closes her eyes as the memory takes her.

“Kadan,” the Iron Bull says into her ear, mouth so close she can feel the brush of his lips, “We’ll have the rest of our lives and the whole fucking world to do whatever the hell we want. As soon as you come back.”

Ellana opens her eyes, both arms outstretched into darkness. The green glitter of the Anchor on her right hand clear and present, the tears drying already in her eyes, and fiery purpose burning her her chest.

And for the first time in so very, very long, Ellana wakes up with clarity. And certainty. And resolve.

Both her hands close into fists.

She remembers everything.


	373. Chapter 373

The woman they put in the cell across from Bull’s is chatty. The chatty ones always break terribly, he finds. He does not look forward to seeing this one break too. Bull doesn’t have much to look forward to in general.

He is in a prison cell, separated from his people. His people - the people who trusted him - may or may not be dead, maybe worse. He worries about all of them, but there are some he worries about more than others.

Dalish and her ability to create energy bolts with her mind, for one.

Krem, who’s existence - by the definition of many of the people who’ve found themselves in power currently - is a sin.

Grim, who’s inability to speak is considered a weakness by these same people.

He has been in this cell for about three months now. His time might not be very accurate as the light cycle of this prison ship is very, very fucked up for the sole purpose of fucking the people inside of it up. By his best count it’s three months. It might be more than that. It might be drastically less.

He’s seen three people get brought into the cell across from him during that time. And, again, his time might be off, but the first one lasted maybe a month and a half. That one lasted the longest. The second one lasted about two weeks. The last one was taken away two days ago, unmoving. Their eyes were open, but that doesn’t mean much.

Bull wonders if he’s the longest tenant in his cell.

He hopes that his guys are as stubborn as they are with him and are still alive right now.

Bull sits in the middle of his cell because all four walls are electrified. There isn’t enough room for him to lie down flat. Either that’s the point or they don’t have bigger cells.

He could stand and he can walk a few paces in any direction.

But that’s about it.

He’s fallen back to old training to stay sane. Keep his head and wits. Mostly he just eavesdrops on conversations around him. Noise isn’t filtered out by the cells, the place seems designed to make them echo actually.

Maybe these people hope that everyone inside will be driven insane by each other’s sounds.

Bull knows that the person in the cell next to him is probably going to die tomorrow, based on the lack of movement or breathing or anything really going on.

The cell on his right is empty. He hasn’t heard anything from it since he got here. Either that or whoever’s in there is very, very dead and no one’s emptied the thing yet.

Bull can’t a good angle to see the cells across from him, not without electrocuting himself, so he only has the cell in front of him.

The woman in it winks at him.

She has long, thick hair and a playfully mean smile. He does not smile back but she keeps smiling. Smiles wider even.

Just his luck that the next one would be possibly crazy on top of it, too.

It takes what Bull thinks is two days for her to call out to him.

“What are you here for? You look quite normal,” she says.

Bull wordlessly points to his horns.

“I mean, aside from being Qunari, you look mundane,” she corrects herself. “And handsome. I don’t mean to say that you’re boring. You are very handsome. A very rugged aesthetic. Magnificent when you aren’t covered in blood. With your dawnstone earrings. Never forget the v-neck and low slung sweatpants. Now there’s a looker.”

Bull’s eye narrows at her.

Those are things that he is obviously not wearing right now.

And this person may be slightly crazy but that is a very purposeful use of tense. A crazy person can be a smart person.

If she’s crazy, of course. She could just be telepathic.

She smiles at him and lies down on the floor. The same cell dimensions give her enough room to lie down and stretch her arms - no, arm. Only one arm, now that she’s come closer to the edge of her cell. - out to her sides.

“So? What are you here for?”

Bull shrugs, even though she isn’t looking at him.

“Got caught looking foreign,” He says. “The Reds hate foreign.”

“Foreign, queer, unusual, abnormal,” the woman ticks off on her fingers, “A laundry list of sundry things that they don’t quite appreciate. You’d think they  _want_  their gene pool to be weak chins and translucent skin.”

Bull feels his lip’s twitch upwards.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I was in here for?”

“Do I need to?”

She laughs.

“You probably should.”

“I didn’t get this far on what I probably should be doing.”

“I know,” the woman says. “Oh, don’t I know it?”

She doesn’t talk to him for another few days so much as she talks out loud and in general.

Thus far he’s gathered that she can take a beating, is very good at pissing people off, and seems to have either scared Reds enough that they react by either running past her cell at full sprint speed or attacking her through the barrier walls.

About two weeks into it he wakes up out of unconsciousness - fresh from a round of beating, which is pretty ineffective because these guys are fucking  _babies_  compared to what he’s  _grown up with_  - he sees her staring at him from across the way.

She smiles and says, “You really ought to ask me what I’m in here for.”

“Aside from the obvious?” Bull retorts, slowly sitting up and stretching bad leg out. “Alright, fine. What are you in for?”

She sighs a long and strangely loud sound that fills his ears from all the way over here.

“I used to be somebody,” She says wistfully.

“Most of us were,” Bull replies, body tensing when he feels something strangely  _familiar_  wash over him. It makes his throat close, heart start to pick up, and stomach clench.

Bull looks up and sees the woman standing. Her right eye glows an otherworldly green and an arm of light has materialized. She holds it up, spectral fist closed before opening. A rush of wind and pressure releases and Bull closes his eye, turning away as he feels another heavy  _wave_  over him.

When he looks again his cell is open and so is hers.

The entire place is silent before alarms begin to blare.

The woman calmly strides out of her cell and says, voice projecting through the rows and rows of cells - “ _I_  am the Inquisitor of Thedas. And I came here for  _you_.”

He knows that she’s talking to all of the prisoners, but she’s looking right at him. Walking right towards him.

“And you  _are_  somebody,” She continues. “All of you are somebody. And that somebody is  _mine_.”

Bull doesn’t move - something in him tells him  _don’t_  when he thinks about it, thinks about all the ways he could get the fuck out of here - and she puts her hand in the center of her chest. The glowing one.

And with the tips of her fingers she  _pushes_.

It’s more like a flick, really.

But it feels like he’s just been slammed into a wall and all the air is knocked out of him as  _memories_ ,  _sounds_ ,  _faces, voices_  flood into his head.

“Kadan,” His voice says without his brain understanding for a full minute.

This is not how it should be.

They are not as they should be.

Bull focuses down on Ellana and grabs her other arm, pulling her to him, “ _What the fuck_.”

He feels the trail of her ghost arm sliding over his back as she buries her face into his neck.

“I came for you,” She repeats, “At the end of the world and straight into this one.”


	374. Chapter 374

“I’m not doing it,” Bull says, trying to flip the plastic-covered menu page back to something more reasonable, “I didn’t come on this road trip to get food poisoning, the shits, fucked up, or otherwise. I’ve got over a hundred and twenty miles to drive through before seven tonight.”

“Oh come on,” Ellana says, flattening the menu and squeezing tight against him, “We came on this road trip to relax and have fun. Because if it’s the two of us nothing is going to go wrong. I trust the power of love and friendship and we’re going to have a great rom-com road-trip movie vacation. Do the ultimate breakfast challenge.”

“There’s  _twenty eggs_  involved,” Bull says. “I don’t want to eat twenty eggs, and I don’t think you’d want to be in a car with me after I ate twenty eggs. Besides, you’ve been on me about my cholesterol and shit for  _years_.”

“This is a vacation and it’s probably the only time I’m going to let you eat like a young man again,” Ellana says. But she pauses, mouth twisted in contemplation.

“Me in a car after twenty eggs,” Bull repeats. “We did not go on a road trip vacation for that.”

“Well. You have a point,” Ellana says, pressure on the menu slowly easing up as she relents. Bull quickly tries to turn the page back but Ellana suddenly presses down again. She nods once to herself, or the universe, and continues, “But if you can stay in a bathroom with me while I have period shits and listen to me cry then I can stay in a car with you after you eat twenty eggs. Come on. I know you want to.”

“I’m not young anymore.”

“Were you  _ever_  young?” Ellana teases.

“If I was you made me this old,” Bull replies, nudging her with his elbow.

“Come on, babe,” Ellana looks up at him with that look of trouble he knew in her eyes way before he even knew that her favorite color was pistachio green and that her favorite ice cream was butter pecan even though she shouldn’t be having ice cream at all and before he knew that she has a strange and irrational fear of partially opened doors. “I mean. Cullen did it.”

“ _Rutherford?_ ” Bull repeats after a moment of not understanding the words she just said. He knows the syllables, the individual morphemes and everything. But somehow they just aren’t coming together in a coherent way that his brain can comprehend. “Cullen? As in. Cullen Rutherford? Our Cullen Rutherford?  _Inquisition Cullen Rutherford?_ Former  _templar_  Cullen Rutherford?”

“Yup,” Ellana pops the  _p_  just so.

“ _Stanton?”_

 _“Cullen. Stanton. Rutherford_.”

Ellana points across the diner to the pictures of people who’ve successfully beaten the Breakfast Scramble Skillet Challenge.

Bull squints, scanning the faces and sure enough he sees a much younger Cullen among them. It is unmistakably Cullen.

“What the  _fuck,”_ is all Bull can really think of saying after a few minutes of glaring at Cullen’s  picture.

“How did you think I knew to come here?” Ellana says all innocent like she didn’t just play him like a fucking video game. “Cullen said they do a good breakfast here. And I trust a country boy like him to know breakfast. So I planned our route to start one of our days off here. I think I agree with him.”

Ellana smirks. The final nail in the coffin, as it were.

“So. You gonna?”

Bull closes the menu and pushes her out of the booth.

“You damn well fucking know I will. Sit on the other side, I’m going to need room.”

-

“Motels!” Ellana says, happily smacking her flip flops against her heels as Bull parks in front of their room. She practically dives out of the car, throwing her arms up into the air as she twirls around the half-empty parking lot. “Pool! Possible bed bugs! Shitty appliances! Railroad tracks in the background! Gas stations and truckers every other building!”

“Horror movie,” Bull says, flipping his shades up and doing a quick look around the place. He can’t sense or see anyone staring at the or anything. So that’s a start.

Or maybe everyone else here is dead or in a cult of silence. They won’t know until they’re almost murdered, probably.

“ _Old_  horror movie,” Ellana points out, “ _Current_  horror is based on being  _bougie as fuck_  in your nice hotel or your Air BnB.”

Well. Point.

“I’m going to pick up dinner,” and maybe call Leliana to do a second background check on this plae. Bull leans out the car window and hands Ellana the keys to their room, and asks “Any requests?”

Ellana hums, twirling the keys around her finger as she thinks, and then says, “Pizza and shakes.”

“Lactose.” He says it, knowing full well it’s a losing battle and one that they’ve had a million times already.

“I’m on vacation.”

“Did you tell your lactose intolerance that?”

Ellana rolls her eyes, “Alright. Lemon tea.”

“I’ll buy you a lemon and a tea bag.”

“I don’t know why you asked me what I wanted.”

“To check it off the list,” Bull says teasingly. “Don’t unload all the bags.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellana disappears around the back and Bull pops the trunk. He hears her grunt and the sound of two bags hitting the pavement before the door slams shut. “I’m going to shower and then investigate the pool.”

“Check for bugs,” Bull says.

Ellana kisses him on the cheek as she passes. “Same to you.”

“Ugh. Gross,” Bull replies and watches Ellana unlock the motel door and drag their bags in. She waves at him through the window blinds before closing them with a sharp  _snap_.

He waits another three or so minutes to make sure she doesn’t come out screaming about a dead body or blood on the walls or something.

His phone chimes and when he checks it Ellana’s texted him -  _No. Really. It’s cool. Get powdered donuts. I’m going to read fanfiction so don’t call me I might be crying or something._


	375. Chapter 375

“While we're out here, let’s play a game,” Ellana says while they wait for Josephine to pull through and get them a new car. Bull is pretty sure that they can rent a car on their own, but apparently because they’re important they have to do things through certain channels. Even if they are literally in the rental place.

Ellana has one leg thrown up over his lap, flip flop precariously dangling from her foot, and a teen magazine in her hands.

“Alright,” Bull says, texting his phone for the dozenth time in the past five minutes for any update from Josephine, or maybe Leliana. “Sure.”

“Would you rather be naked with me on a deserted island or wandering through a forest? Also naked.”

“Forest,” Bull answers, “You didn’t say the forest was deserted, we’ve got a chance of finding a highway and hitchhiking or possibly stealing someone’s car. Next question.”

“That was really fast,” Ellana says, “Guess which one I picked.”

“Also forest, because you hate sand. Next question.”

“Why are you so fast at these?”

“Why are you low-balling me?” Bull returns, curling a hand around her shin, “Are these from the magazine?”

“What do you think?”

“You haven’t been reading shit from that magazine and you’re just imagining crazy weird stuff to mess with me,” Bull answers. “Next question.”

“Neat,” Ellana grins, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table, scattering several other magazines that haven’t been changed out for the past five or six years, “Alright. Next question. Mint ice cream on the moon? Chili fries in the Approach?”

“For me or you?”

“Both.”

“Chili fries on the Approach,” Bull says, “For me. No shirts, suns out, every kind of gun out. For you? Mint ice cream on the moon because it’s whimsical and you’d rather be cold than warm.”

“Okay, but in a swimsuit or in a cute sweater and leggings?”

Bull has to pause on that one for a second, “On the moon?”

“Yeah,” Ellana says, dragging out the  _eaaahhhh_  as she grins at him, wiggling her toes in anticipation.

“Trick question you’d be in a t-shirt and shorts,” Bull says, “It’s probably one of my t-shirts, probably.”

“Which one?”

“The one with the nacho stains? What am I wearing in the Approach with my chili fries?”

“Pink shorts, no shirt, eyepatch but also sunglasses, your matching leather friendship bracelets that you and Cassandra and Cullen have, and a fanny pack.”

Bull nods, “Spot on, babe. Are the shorts a print?”

“What are you, a monster? Not in that shade of pink. Okay, okay. Would you rather eat eggs with your bare hands in the middle of a bog or a steak in the middle of the highway?”

“Steak in the middle of the highway,” Bull says, “Just because I hate bogs. And the opposite for you because you hate steaks. Do I get a turn?”

“Sure. Hit me.”

“Sleeping in on an overcast day with no pants or staying up playing video games in a fluffy blanket?”

“Oh shit, babe, way to hit it where it hurts. Sleeping in. Same for you. Anything from Josephine?”

Bull checks his phone.

“De Fer texted to say that Josephine is currently arguing with someone about getting money back on our other car because it was bad quality to start with. This might take a while. Check your phone, she says that Pavus has been sending you some hotel stuff so he can reserve for us.”

-

Bull shades his eyes as Ellana takes a picture of the world’s largest fishing lure.

“Mmm,” Ellana hums, sounding disappointed, “Smaller than I thought it would be. Overall, not as impressive as I imagined.”

“On a scale of world’s largest picture frame to world’s smallest wooden cat, what’s your rating?”

“Meh,” Ellana shoves her phone into her back pocket, curling her arm through his and leaning against his bicep, “Somewhere around oldest ongoing crochet project.”

“Yikes.”

“Meh,” Ellana repeats, “Do you want to look at the fishing lure museum?”

“Do we have to pay for it?”

“In hindsight, we should have probably just did a drive by of this because we paid three bucks to park here and admission is included.”

“That’s money,” Bull says, “We paid for it. Might as well go. Free air conditioning.”

Ellana shrugs and they turn around to go inside the fishing lure museum.

“Where are we going after this?”

“There’s supposed to be a really famous botanical garden and greenhouse around here,” Ellana says, “Josephine got us a room on the property. We’re staying there for two nights and then going to a draco-lisc conservation and preservation park.”

“I like that one.”

“I know babe,” Ellana puts a hand on his chest and pats. “Heh. Tiddy.”

Bull runs a hand over her face and messes up her hair as she laughs, arm still wrapped around his as they enter the museum.

Both of them grimace a little because it’s so. So. So. Cramped.

It’s like a hoarder dumped all their shit in one little room.

That might have been what happened, honestly.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bull says, even as Ellana pulls his arm back and they both start walking backwards out of the museum.

“Nope,” Ellana says, “Nah. Nah. There’s probably people parts somewhere in there and if we recognize it we’re like - obligated to solve that cold case. Nope. Nah. Not today. That’s some other law enforcement’s problem.  Not mine. Not today. Maybe a week from now. Maybe two weeks from now. But not today.”

“Agreed,” Bull says, as they both rapidly walk towards their car. “Does the botanical gardens allow for early check in?”

“I’m sure if we ask very nicely they’ll let us hang around early,” Ellana says, “If anything we can snuggle in the back of the car until they let us in. Want me to drive?”

“Nah. I’m good to go for a few more hours. I’ve stretched my legs, saw a giant fishing lure, I’m good. You need to pee?”

“Not  _here_ , Bull. Ask me again when we find somewhere that isn’t probably a cold case.”

“Right. Probably better that way.”


	376. Chapter 376

The Dalish will smuggle anything for you at a price.

Or at least, almost anything.

There are just some things you can’t ask a group of people who descend from slaves to do. Like…smuggle slaves.

And if you’re stupid enough to try it, they’ll lock you down hard.

“Oh no,” Ellana says as she hands Evelyn back the table with the latest Inquisition requests, “You aren’t getting anyone to ferry that. Absolutely not. In fact, if you do business with that guy you’re going to lose  _all_  of your Dalish couriers. True stuff there.”

“What?” Evelyn asks, “Why? He’s got one of the best lyrium refine rates and he’s willing to cut us an amazing deal.”

“Probably because he thinks the Inquisition can get him past the black list of the Dalish runners,” Ellana replies. “He’s wrong. Doesn’t matter who he sells or buys from, no Dalish transporter is going to do it. Even if our hahren told us to - and they wouldn’t  _ever_ , so don’t hold your breath on that one - I don’t think you could find someone to run that cargo. And there’s no money, resources, favors, or threats you can leverage to change that one. It’s like how you aren’t ever going to get Qunari dealing black powder or under-dwarves dealing Golem tech. He’s got black listed about seven years ago by a clan up by the Anderfels and no one’s run for him since.”

“What did he do?” Cullen asks.

“There’s only one reason the Dalish runners would block service with someone so completely,” Leliana says, “Trafficking.”

Ellana nods, “Can you believe it? Wanted the runners to smuggle about thirty girls over from the Anderfels to south Orlais. And he thought they’d say  _yes_? Ridiculous.”

Cullen scratches his jaw, frowning as he thinks, “This will be complicated.”

“Mhm,” Ellana shrugs. “I’ll pass out the rest of the assignments, but you’d better reconsider with him. It’s up to you if you want to keep doing business with him, but if word gets out that you are you might start losing transporters.”

“It’s a him or you situation?” Leliana asks, eyes sharp as she begins to calculate risks and loss.

“Not exactly. He is blacklisted, but unofficially it’s up to the courier if they want to do business with someone who does business with a blacklisted person. I’d still work for you because I like  _you_  as people and I believe in your cause - though I’d be a little upset about you doing business with a trafficker and I may or may not be petty about it - but I know some couriers who will straight up quit.”

“Cut him,” Evelyn says, handing the tablet to Leliana, “I know. He’s a good resource but not as good as the Dalish. No point in having the lyrium if we can’t move it, and I don’t want to risk alienating a majority of our support because of this.”

Leliana just nods, “Josephine and I will figure it out.”

“Neat,” Ellana says, “I have a list of issues from the couriers about stuff we’ve picked up and heard about on our latest runs for the Inquisition. We’re getting a lot of trouble and increased security through the Northern border of Orlais and Ferelden. The coast is getting locked down and we’ve having to detour our routes down deep south. I’ve also got a few couriers asking for fee rate increases for routes that require them to pass through Suledin or increased Inquisition presence in the area.”

“What’s going on at Suledin?” Cullen asks, “Everything should have been neutralized down there.”

“Well. Maybe not as neutralized as you’d like, Commander.”

-

“Hey babe,” Bull hears through coms, “I brought you back up.”

Bull turns over his shoulder and has to squint against the lights of at least six air-cutters and a fleet of maybe three dozen hover-bikes. Each and everyone of them has their lights on at full concentrated beams and weapons out.

“Nice,” Max says over coms, “The cavalry is here.”

The air-cutter jets hum as their pilots bring the ships level to the ground and each one drops about six to seven drones that back up the hover-bikes.

“Nothing like a good ol’Dalish stampede, right?” Ellana says, “You guys might want to consider getting out of the way. Or holding  _very_  still.”

There’s a scramble as any Inquisition fighters close enough to the fringes book it to get out of the way.

Bull stands completely still because he’s right in the thick of it.

The sound of engines cuts and the lights of the cruisers and the ships dim to complete darkness.

Then the faint outlines of the power circuits light up, creating the faint and menacing outlines of the bikes and battle drones. And then the engines roar and the couriers charge, the sound of their engines like a furious wind-storm and the rumble of the dust behind them like hooves.

Bull closes his eye and feels the wind as they barely cut around him, but plowing their shields straight into unsuspecting and blinded bodies.

“I love it when you come to save us from our bad choices,” Max says.

Ellana laughs. “You have to pay for this, you know. Most of them aren’t working for free.”

“What about you?” Sera asks.

“I’ll give you a discount because I like you,” Ellana replies. “Eyes closed, blinding burst in five. Brace for impact.”

Bull crouches and covers his head and ears, and the sounds of the engines revving turns high pitched and light blooms on the back of his eyelids at the burst bombs.

“Coming around for a second sweep,” Ellana says, “Hold position and get ready to get back in it.”

There’s another rumbling as the Dalish turn and charge back again, and this time Bull holds his hand out in front of him.

As the rumbling gets close and loud, passing, he feels something drop into his hand. He opens his eye and sees a magazine full of neutron shatter-rounds.

Bull grins, “Aw, babe.”

“You’re welcome,” Ellana sings out. He looks ahead and sees her hover-bike completing a turn so she’s facing forward again, and she’s holding a stun-prod that crackles with mean looking blue electricity. “Let’s get this done then. You guys are paying a pretty high rate for the air-cutters you know.”


	377. Chapter 377

_My twin thinks you’re really hot. Congratulations, you’re the first one who passed that test._

For a second Bull thinks that he ended up in an awkward situation where he had a one night stand and forgot about it but he hasn’t had any one night stands or hook ups of any kind in the past four months. He hasn’t gone for that since he and Ellana started going out regularly - mostly just because he’s too busy, though she’s suggested to him to maybe take some time off to let off some steam.

Then the name of the sender registers for him and he frowns, sitting up a little as he texts back -

 _You don’t have a twin_.

Ellana, in that horrifically ominous way she has, just texts back  _lmfao_.

_Babe?_

Nothing. But he knows she’s read it. She must have read it.

_Babe. You don’t have a twin. wtf?? babe???_

Still nothing and Bull is getting concerned. Did he have a one night stand with her twin? He would’ve recognized that person, right? Right?

Fuck, he hasn’t slipped that far after quitting the Ben-Hassrath, has he? Is he getting dull? Out of practice? He wouldn’t ever get so out of practice that he’d miss ending up having sex with his current partner’s twin would he?  _Would he slip up in not knowing Ellana had a twin at all_?

Bull quickly texts Pavus -  _does ellana have a twin?????_

Pavus texts back about five minutes later - either he hasn’t slept at all or Bull just woke him up, Bull can almost never tell unless they’re in the same hotel or house together and Dorian throws a heavy object at the closest wall they share -  _???? Are you okay????_

Bull considers asking Leliana but she might just ignore him in favor of seeing how this plays out.

He texts Sera instead -  _does ellana have a twin?? y/n? important._

Sera texts back immediately - she definitely didn’t sleep last night, or maybe she was just about to go to sleep -  _no???? what the fuck???? why are you asking that??? what the FUCK bull??_

_She said her twin thinks i’m hot. she doesn’t have one tho, right??? right???_

_wtf u tell me spy_

_former_

_S P Y is S P Y fuck i’m texting beth hold on_

Bull sends off a quick text to Josephine because she’s the nicest person who might know the answer but Josephine must be asleep because she doesn’t reply back. Or she’s on a flight somewhere, Bull’d need to check their shared calendar to find out.

He doubts he’s going to get a response but he texts Ellana again.

_are u fucking with me or what_

This time he does get a response and it’s just -  _:3c_

Krem’s right Ellana is some sort of karma come to fuck him up. She’s simultaneously one of the best relationships he’s ever had and also one of the worst people that fits in right along with all the other terrible people he knows.

Herah texts him while he’s waiting for Sera to text him back.

_josie and pavus are freaking out in their group text bc of smth about ellana multiplying wtf did you do_

And of course it becomes  _his fault_  somehow.

The group chat between everyone - literally fucking  _everyone and everyone’s friends_  - chimes.

Sera’s send a text that just reads  _WHAT THE FUCK ELLANA_

Ellana and an unknown number immediately respond  _LMFAO_  at the same time.

The same unknown number sends him and Ellana a text immediately after  _you’re lucky you’re hot otherwise there’s no chance in hell i’d let you date my twin_

Bull quickly texts Ellana  _what the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK LAVELLAN_

-

Ellana wakes up at around three in the morning to someone standing over her. She flips the light on and tosses the covers back immediately.

“Tell me everything,” Ellana says as Mahanon dives in next to her. There’s a quick fight to determine who gets the good neck pillow and who gets the lion’s share of the blankets.

Mahanon wins the pillow but Ellana gets the blankets, though she does have to suffer Mahanon’s ice block feet pressed against her ankles and calves.

“He’s hot,” Mahanon says, “I don’t think I need to tell you that. Also? Didn’t even notice me. He’s a good dancer, by the way.”

“I know all of these things,” Ellana says. “When you said you wanted to con my boyfriend check in on the goods I thought you’d bring me some drama or something. Some grade A bullshit.”

“I live to disappoint you because there’s nothing more entertaining than you being disappointed,” Mahanon says, trying to sneak his ice block fingers onto her stomach. Ellana quickly punches him in the ribs and Mahanon winces. “He was turning down people who were hitting on him. I thought you told him you’re fine with him having sex with other people.”

“I did, maybe he just didn’t want to have sex right then. He’s not a  _machine_ , Mahanon. He can’t just turn it on and off,” Ellana says. “Anything else?”

“You’re entirely wrong about him being super smart because we danced for like ten minutes and he even got me a drink and not once did he say shit about me looking like you.”

“You are blonde. And very tan.”

“And that changes my eyes? My nose? The fact that we have the same birthmark just on opposite sides? Our matching earrings? Your boyfriend’s hot but he’s not as sharp as you think he is. I don’t care how many times you’ve seen him beat a quiz show. Are you sure you aren’t just dating him for his car? I saw it. It’s a nice car. A very  _you car.”_

“I love his car,” Ellana replies, “But I love him more. You sure he didn’t notice?”

“If he did he didn’t say anything. Did he text you about it?”

“No. He just texted me to say goodnight,” Ellana says, reaching around and fishing for her phone on the side table, unlocking it and showing the text to Mahanon. “Hey. You know what this means?”

“What?”

“I’mma tell him that you think he’s hot in about,” Ellana calculates the best time to strike, “Four hours and he’s going to lose his mind about it.”

Mahanon smirks. “Give me his number. I want in on it.”

“Babe, you’ve been in on it since day  _one_.” Ellana takes her phone from him and puts it back no the side table. “Hey, Mahanon?”

Her brother yawns, already tucking himself up to go to sleep for a few hours before they wake up and cause some general mayhem.

“Yeah?”

“I love it when you come back from whatever it is you do and cause trouble with me,” Ellana says. “It’s kind of like that time we conned grandma.”

Mahanon grins, nudging her knee with his, “This is a hundred times better than the time we conned grandma. And yes. I love you, too.”


	378. Chapter 378

“You said your brother wasn’t a gamer,” Dorian says as soon as the door opens. Ellana blinks at him, looking quite surprised as she hugs bags of take out to her chest. “Also, Cole let me in. I was going to borrow some stuff but then I got side tracked because your brother’s been glued to your television and I’m not sure if he’s blinking.”

“For how long?” Ellana frowns.

“One hour since I got here, at least.”

Ellana grins, “Neat. I haven’t missed anything. He must be done with his warm ups by now.”

“His what?”

Ellana thrusts some of the take out bags at him and brushes past him, kicking her shoes off and shoving them towards the side of the hallway.

“Am I missing something?” Dorian asks, closing the door and following behind her.

“Mahanon isn’t exactly a gamer, but sometimes he’ll get in a mood and he’ll be at it for a few hours and it’s really cool,” Ellana says, poking her head into the living room. “Ah heck yeah. He’s in it. Good thing I brought a lot of food. You wanna watch him with me?”

“He’s playing  _Tetris_ ,” Dorian says, “He’s been playing Tetris for over an hour. How does someone play Tetris for that long?”

“Very well mostly,” Ellana says, “Yo, bro, how’s it going?”

Mahanon doesn’t respond, his face is perfectly smooth and blank. The only movement in his entire body is his hands as he plays Tetris.

“You want a drink?” Ellana asks, turning to Dorian and gesturing for him to follow her to the kitchen. “Bull’s on his way home. I sent him to pick up some bionicos while I got the tacos and quesadillas. Hey, text Sera and Dagna. Maybe they’ll come over too. It can be a party.”

“Of watching your brother play Tetris? Sorry, I don’t think that’s my kind of party,” Dorian says. “Though I will stay for the free food.”

“Who ever said it was free?” Ellana jokes, pulling food out of bags, turning and yelling towards the stairs, “Cole! I got food. Come down and help me set up!”

Dorian goes to get plates and glasses and when he turns around Cole is there unwrapping foil. Dorian isn’t even surprised that he didn’t hear Cole anymore.

“Hello again Dorian,” Cole says, “Mahanon is happy.”

“He’s delighted," Ellana says, giving Cole a one armed hug as she flips open a carton full of nachos. “And he’s going to be extra happy when he eats some of this food.”

“Is he going to eat? He seems very deep in,” Dorian says. “I normally see that kind of focus from Sera when she’s playing operation. Or working with dangerous chemicals.”

“If I hold the food close enough to his mouth he’ll eat it,” Ellana says.

“You  _spoon_  feed your brother when he plays?” Dorian’s eyebrows raise. “Mahanon Lavellan gets  _spoon fed_?”

“Listen,” Ellana says, “You don’t just interrupt artistry like that, okay? You’ve got to just…do what you have to do. You’ll understand once you start watching. The cleanest clears. Absolutely beautiful lines.”

-

“Alright, so Cole’s really into embroidery right now,” Ellana says, “So I want to get him some nice thread for Saturnalia in a lot of different colors. Like silk or ombre or some thread with glittery bits or something like that. And I want to get him something else, too, something that isn’t tied to embroidery in case he feels like he has to keep going with it just because we got thread.”

“A new hat? Gloves?” Bull muses as he works on assembling a new map for their next DND session. He’s not sure if the tree should be in the far north corner or if he should move it closer to the road he’s built. “Candy? Something he can chew on when he’s nervous?”

“These are all very good suggestions but they just aren’t screaming Saturnalia to me. Those are things we can get him all the time,” Ellana says, drumming her fingers on the table.

“Rock me,” Bull says, holding out his hand and Ellana picks out a rock from his extensive collection of DND map items.

Bull puts the rock three squares down from the tree and gets up to examine the overall board. Too many obstacles? Too few? Does this tree look natural?

Ellana idly runs her fingers over the plastic containers and compartments that separate types of trees and rocks and types of other map parts. She picks out a plastic bale of hay and rolls it between her fingers.

“Mahanon’s got him a silk and leather journal for his scrap booking,” Ellana says, “Varric’s going to get him a new bicycle. Cassandra’s knit him this really nice burgundy sweater. I saw her and Josephine talking about doing leather patches on the elbows the other day. Kaaras got him a book of poetry with nice pictures in it.”

“What did we get him last year?”

“We took him hiking last year,” Ellana answers, “And we got him a telescope that we taught him to use in the mountains. And that night light that puts up the constellations like a mini-astrarium.”

“Right,” Bull remembers, now. Ellana and Cole stuck to him like leeches. Ice leeches. “Tree me.”

He’s decided on not enough trees.

Ellana hands him a miniature spruce tree and he puts it near the south western edge of the map.

“Hey, what about a cookbook?” Bull says, “He likes watching us cook. I mean, he’s never asked before, but he looks interested in it. Maybe we could do that.”

Ellana hums, “What if we write down our recipes and make him a cook book? So it’s more homey?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bull says. “I’ll do the writing, you do the book binding.”

“I want to do the titles and headers,” Ellana says, “But otherwise, yeah. Your type writer print is probably what we need in this situation. Have you considered some rocks on this side? Maybe a gentle incline over here?”


	379. Chapter 379

A sky so blue it makes your heart cry.

That's what Evelyn remembers most about that day. Honestly, there are other things she should probably be remembering. She, probably, should be remembering how much pain she was in or maybe something emotional like how angry and hurt and betrayed she was, or how surprised or scared she was. Maybe even some sort of minor detail about what happened or the things she said. The things he said. The things said, in general. She should, also, probably remember other details.

Where did Solas go afterwards. What happened with Mahanon. What happened to Ellana. Who brought her back to the palace. How did her dragons get brought back. Dragon. Singular.

What happened to her other dragon’s remains.

Little things like that.

No.

What Evelyn remembers most vividly and clearly is that - well, she must have been on her back or falling backwards or something - the sky was so blue it made her eyes sting on reflex and her heart hurt.

A sky perfect for flying. A sky perfect for holding your arms out as your dragon glides beneath you. A sky perfect for standing on your dragon’s back and feeling your dragon turn and start to dip and spiral and you fall through the sky with the old wind stinging your face and your eyes but the sky opens up to hold you and the horizon is a tangible thing in your palms and then you land with your fingers caught onto the spines of another dragon and the air comes back to your lungs and you laugh.

A perfectly blue sky.

Evelyns’ leg dangles off the cave ledge as she looks at a sky equally as blue as the one she remembers from that day and her heart cries because she might never again fly in it.

Not like before.

Six perfect and beautiful years of flying out of almost forty years of living.

Maker and Andraste and anyone else above and below.  _Six. Perfect. Beautiful. Years_. It could never have been enough.

Evelyn turns and sees the shimmering ripple of Ellana’s scales emerging from the water, rainbows glinting off of white scales as her dragon slowly drags her way on the shallows towards dry land.

It has to enough, because she’ll never get more.

Ellana's scales, even when their shades change between faint and off-white lilac to a tint of sunset-pink, always have the slightest sheen of green on them. Almost like some sort of film or coating.

She can see it from here.

Evelyn turns away from the sky and starts making her way down to where her dragon is. It’s taken months, but she’s learned to climb and skid and jump and tumble up and down the Inquisition’s dragon dens the way she used to with two hands.

The Iron Bull watches them both from where he’s been sunning himself, not bothering to hide his very much so warranted attention as Ellana bumps her nose against Evelyn’s stomach. Evelyn stretches her arm out over Ellana’s head as far as she can and starts scratching at scales until Ellana starts to purr.

“Feeling better?” Evelyn asks her dragon.

They had another trial run with one of Frederic and Dagna’s ideas.

Evelyn gets a replacement arm made of wood and metal and pulleys and strange contraptions.

Ellana gets a new wing. They can’t build her a new arm, not like the one she has left. Too complex. An arm and a wing and a hand and a claw at once - too many things going on. But they can give her a wing.

Or at least, that’s what they plan on doing.

Ellana pointedly rolls the scarred shoulder and lets out a low rumble of irritated distaste.

Swimming helps ease the tension afterwards. Ellana hasn’t lost any of her grace in the water at all.

It’s the smallest mercies, really.

Evelyn walks around and rests her weight on Ellana’s strong neck. She can feel the water soaking through her clothes. Ellana leans back against her and together they walk towards where the Iron Bull is sunning himself. As they pass Ellana’s tail flicks against his hind leg with a loud crack and the Iron Bull lets out a heavy puff of air at them before shifting over a few feet.

Ellana roughly shoves against him to get her own space on the rock, scooping Evelyn up and curling around her, getting as much of her head onto Evelyn’s lap as possible.

“You’re just a big cat,” Evelyn says, resuming her scratching of Ellana’s crest. “My big fussy cat.”

The Iron Bull laughs, Evelyn can feel it straight through the stone. And then there’s a loud hissing of his scales against the rock as he slowly gets up, wings stretching up above him as he unfurls to his full length and starts ambling towards the cliff edges.

Ellana immediately sprawls out, claiming all of the space he left behind and soaking up the heat of his body with a happy sigh.

“Hey,” Evelyn says, “It’s a nice sky today.”

Ellana’s head tilts slightly to the side, just enough for one of her large eyes to look at Evelyn directly.

“I think your partner’s got the right idea,” Evelyn continues. “A day to be outside. With the sun.”

Ellana’s eye flicks up towards the openings in the mountain where sunlight cracks through and spills over the spring water and interior.

Evelyn gives what she’s hoping is a certain and steady smile.

“Outside, Ellana. Grass. Trees. Wind. You know. Outside?”

Ellana’s large eye stares right at Evelyn for so long she thinks that she’s fucked up and that Ellana’s going to go diving off into the water again, not be seen or heard from for another few hours.

But then Ellana gets up, and in one swift motion plucks Evelyn by the back of her damp coat and throws Evelyn onto her back.

Evelyn lands with a grunt, and Ellana is ambulating her way towards the entrance to the slopes of the mountain.

Evelyn feels the brush of Ellana’s mind as hers, as clear as the sky and the spring water, as clear as the blue that makes your heart cry.

No words.

But a feeling.

_Your heart will sing again._


	380. Chapter 380

“Do you ever think we should stop doing this?” Mahanon asks as he watches her try and coax a raccoon out from underneath someone’s porch. Either the occupants of this house aren’t home, or they are - very wisely - not making themselves known as Ellana attempts to make a new friend.

“Why?” Ellana asks.

“Maybe we should settle down and move on to just being the mysterious socialites that live in the giant mansion in the woods,” Mahanon says, “It would be easier on Kaaras and Bull.”

“What about Dorian?”

“Dorian would miss the stories I make for him to gossip about, so it would be something of a win some lose some situation for him,” Mahanon says. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while and would like your opinion. As deeply satisfying as it is to become an urban myth with you and also create something of a reputation that gets us amazing benefits, I’m also beginning to wonder if we’ve been at this too long.”

“Not long enough if you ask me,” Ellana says, wiggling her fingers at a the raccoon. Mahanon tilts his head to the side and sees that it’s actually a small family of raccoons. He hopes she doesn’t ask him to carry any. He just got his nails done and he doesn’t feel like picking dirt out from under them after petting raccoons. “Hey look, one of them has a gold necklace. I’m call you…hmmm…Eleanor. Sounds fitting. Matches the necklace. Mahanon watch Eleanor, I think one of her siblings is stuck.”

“Eleanor could be a boy raccoon.”

“Eleanor can be whatever they want to be,” Ellana nudges the raccoon with the gold necklace at Mahanon before flattening herself on the ground and shoving herself under the porch. “I’m getting the other one unstuck. Did these people put a trap for them down here? That’s needlessly cruel.”

“Right,” Mahanon says, resigning himself to picking dirt and mud out from underneath his nails for about an hour tonight, and picks Eleanor up. She’s a little stiff but she doesn’t fuss in his arms. “Anyway. Maybe we should stop this. Or at the very least, move on to doing something else to make ourselves known as the eccentric family that lives in the woods with the money.”

“But this is fulfilling,” Ellana says, voice muffled. “Aha. Got you, Patrick.”

“Patrick?”

“They look like a Patrick.”

“We could hang around the library or coffee shops,” Mahanon says, “Go on rides through the city on our horses. I’m sure they’re very bored of running around the forest all day. Maybe they’d like to intimidate some people instead of each other. Father always says we should show ourselves at the country club or at one of the philanthropy groups.”

“But they’re so boring,” Ellana says, emerging with a smaller raccoon in her arms, “Oh, the baby’s hurt. Let’s go home so I can treat them. Anyway. Why would I want to stop wildlife rescue? I’m young. I’m beautiful. I’m sinfully rich. I’m going to use all of this to help as many animals as possible for as long as I can. Bull knew what he was getting into when we started dating.”

As if on cue, red and white lights start reflecting off the windows of the house.

Mahanon turns around and Bull is leaning against his cruiser. Mahanon squints and sees Dalish waving from the driver’s seat.

He turns towards the house and very quickly sees a curtain flutter. He notes the house number.

“You’re slow,” Mahanon says, “We’ve been here for thirty minutes.”

“Didn’t want to interrupt the good work,” Bull says, “You need a ride home?”

Ellana waves at him, “Babe, you would not  _believe_  the state of this porch. The crimes done to this raccoon family. Look at Patrick’s leg and tell me that this wasn’t unnecessary force.”

Bull opens the back door to the cruiser and Ellana quickly bends down and scoops up as many raccoons into her arms as possible before going to the cruiser, leaving Mahanon to get the rest of them and follow.

Once they’re both situated in the back seat, Bull gets into the passenger seat and Dalish starts driving.

“Did you know that they thought you were demons?” Dalish says, “I guess all they saw from their window was the reflection of light in your eyes and then the scratching of whatever you were doing under the porch.”

“They’re the demons, Dalish, you need to see what they did to poor Patrick.”

“Why is one of them wearing a gold necklace?” Bull asks.

“Eleanor is secret raccoon nobility,” Ellana says. “And Mahanon thinks we should retire as wildlife rescue.”

Bull and Dalish quickly look at them both through the black grate that separates the front from the back fo the cruiser, before looking at each other, and then forward at the road.

“There are other things we could do with our time,” Mahanon says, “Other equally as productive things.”

“But who would save the Patricks of the world?”

“I’d rather the evil I know, thanks,” Bull says, “No offense, but I’m used to this part. I don’t know if I can handle whatever new thing you two move onto.”

-

“My children are in the paper,” Solas says as soon as Mythal picks up the phone.

“Congratulations.”

“No. Not congratulations. I’m texting you a picture of what I woke up to right now,” Solas says, “I don’t know where I went wrong.”

Mythal could probably give him a list but chances of him taking that with grace are slim.

She switches her phone to speaker and looks at the photo he sent her and nearly drops her phone laughing.

“What do I do,” Solas says, “To impress upon them the important and very necessary need for… _common sense_.”

“Overrated,” Mythal replies, squinting at the grainy photograph. It’s probably Ellana based on how wild the hair looks in this one shot. Ellana’s hair is usually undone so it looks like it would definitely flare out like this if she was jumping. Mahanon’s always favored a high ponytail or a tight braid. “What is she doing?”

“At the time she was jumping off of someone’s roof,” Solas replies. “I don’t know why. I don’t even want to ask anymore.”

“Well I do, is she there?”

“No, she’s staying over at the Iron Bull’s apartment for the week while some of her friends are in the area. Apparently they don’t like coming to our house so she’s staying in town so they can be closer.”

“Is one of these friends Hawke? I don’t know why I ask you. I’ll text Ellana. Who took the picture?”

“A security camera, I think.”

“Any charges pressed?”

“No. Against what? Glowing eyes in the night? Of course not. I’m getting too old for this.”

“You were born too old, but never forget that  _you_  were the one causing trouble when we were younger to the complete and utter despair of our parents.”

“Never this much trouble.”

“Not for a lack of trying,” Mythal returns, “And we didn’t have this kind of technology back then. You reap what you sow, brother.”


	381. Chapter 381

“You,” Evelyn points at Ellana, “Have the moral compass of a magnet literally attached to the North pole itself. But ethical standards looser than the Iron Bull’s pants on a Saturday night at a gay night club.”

“Hey,” Bull protests, “I don’t just have sex with  _anyone_. I have  _standards_.”

Evelyn points at him, “I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to your partner in  _crime_. Actual  _crime_. Ellana, two wrongs don’t make a right. You can’t just…break the law to enforce it.”

  
“Are you sure?” Ellana replies. “Are you absolutely one hundred percent  _sure_? Because I’m pretty sure that’s how most law enforcement works. It’s like…take a penny leave a penny.”

“Oh my god,  _no_ ,” Evelyn says. “Please don’t equate one to the other. Ever. This is not take a penny leave a penny.”

“I don’t even know why you’re mad,” Ellana says, “I got the guy.”

“I know you got the guy,” Evelyn replies, “You got the guy, you set seven cars on fire, caused two explosions, and sent thirteen people to the ER.”

“But I  _did_  get the guy. And all of his drugs.  _And_  all of the evidence,” Ellana says. “I did a good job on this one.”

“I really don’t know what you’re expecting here,” Cullen says, breaking in for the first time. “She and Bull have been running strange circles for years. She was in witness protection since before we knew her. She was once a crime lord.”

“ _Crime lord heiress_ ,” Ellana stresses, “I never inherited. And you can’t charge minors. Especially not for crimes done under duress at the coercion of their legal guardians.”

“You teach  _children_ ,” Evelyn continues, “And yet your ethical standards are so non-existent they make fairies seem plausible.”

“Fairies are real,” Ellana protests, “You’re just an unbeliever and more likely than most to be tricked by the court. Do us all a favor and never approach any circular structure ever. Besides. You asked me to help you handle this situation. I handled it.”

“Could you handle it  _less_?” Evelyn asks. “Maybe…handle it from afar? Or maybe not handle it but gently guide it? Nudge it? Redirect course?”

Ellana gives her a blank look.

“She’s asking if you could aim for more subtlety next time,” Bull says, “Like when we had to redo the gutters.”

Ellana’s face clears up instantly, “Oh. Yeah. The gutter job. I can do that.”

“What the  _hell_  did you do when you did the gutters on your house?” Evelyn asks. She hasn’t heard anything about the gutters. Evelyn’s literally heard something about everything going on in that completely redone by now house, but she’s not heard anything about the gutters. She knows the gutters are in good condition, but she thought that was possibly one of the few things that wasn’t a light cover for some sort of assassination attempt.

She’s literally heard about everything in that house up to the kitchen sink, but not a single word on the gutters.

“Oh, not  _our_  house,” Bull says while he and Ellana are doing that thing where they have an entire back and forth banter with just their eyes.

“Your house,” Ellana says, smiling sweetly up at Bull who just shakes his head and then shrugs. Like he lost.

Untrue.

Evelyn is the one who lost here and everyone knows it.

Evelyn looks at Cullen. Cullen looks just as baffled and ready to fall into despair as she is.

“When did you do the gutters on our house?” Cullen asks.

Ellana and Bull both mime zipping their lips and throwing away the key.

“What happened at our house?” Evelyn says. “What international assassin did you kill on our property?  _Why were you doing the gutters on our house in the first place?_  Andraste. What else have you done?  _Have you been secretly remodeling our house_?”

Cullen releases one very long, very drawn out sigh and puts a hand on Evelyn’s.

“This…is not what we want to focus on.”

Evelyn doesn’t know how Ellana and Bull keep doing it - or if it’s even on purpose, it  _might_  be, but it also  _might not be_  - but without fail every time Evelyn tries to hold a serious conversation with them about something they derail the entire conversation and send it flying out a window onto a spike trap.

“Okay. Listen,” Evelyn says, “I need you to just…think. Or maybe think less? I don’t know. Just. I need you,  _need, I need this to happen, Ellana._ I need you to tone it down. You are  _here_.” Evelyn holds her hand as high as she can above her head. “You are here on the metric of…extraneous. I need you to bring it down to here.”

Evelyn puts her hand at eye level.

“I’m not asking the impossible. You will never get it down to normal. I’m just asking that you bring it down to something around Varric’s level of stressful. Or Dorian’s. I don’t care how you do it. Drag it down. Shoot it down. Rip it down. Smother it. Just. Get it down to here.  _Please_. I am  _begging you_.”

Bull gently elbows Ellana.

“Like the time with the lamp post,” He says.

Evelyn almost asks  _what time with the lamp post_ , but Cullen gently kicks her underneath the desk and Evelyn is back on track.

“Just get your level of crazy down to everyone else’s level of crazy. It’s the Inquisition. Some drama is to be expected,” Evelyn says. “But please, just get it to a level of drama we can even consider attempting to control.”

Ellana looks doubtful, “I’ll try, Evelyn. You know I will, but I can’t promise you anything. I mean. It is me. And I’m married to him. And I’m literally trying to take down an entire empire of crime lords and ladies that stretches back literal centuries pretty much by myself while being targeted by several factions at the same time. So. I’ll  _try_. But I can’t make any promises. Sometimes you’ve just got to…you know. Do what you’ve got to do. Cut corners. Cut checks. Cut ties. Cut fingers. Cut various body parts.”


	382. Chapter 382

“So. These are the famed islands,” Ellana says, hands on her hips as she jumps - literally  _jumps off the edge of their ship_  - and lands with a tuck roll, springing to her feet, on the sandy beach just shy of several sharp and jagged rocks.

Bull leans his elbow on the rail of the ship, head resting on his palm as he watches her take in the unexplored land to dominate and forcefully purge of any unsavory Red Templar or Venatori influence.

“I love her,” he says to no one in particular. “Look at that. She just jumped straight off a five to six story battleship onto what could have been jagged rock and she’s completely fine. Everyone’s gotta get themselves a person like that. It’s good for the health. Tension and release. Like sex, but somehow better.”

“No one needs to hear you wax not-so-poetically about the girlfriend you don’t have sex with being like physical sex,” Sera says, “Use your big person muscles and help unload the ship. Also. You’re probably right.”

“Are you going to leave your pokemon in storage?” Sera asks as he follows her down through the ship to the cargo area, “Since it’s a new region and all?”

“No,” Bull says, “Pookie doesn’t like being left alone. Also Pookie’s super attached to Grievous.”

“Aside from Pookie, I mean.” Sera pauses, looking around, “Where  _is_  Pookie?”

“Probably with Grievous,” Bull shrugs. “And no. Why should I?”

“Because it’s a new region and who knows what new pokemon you can get?”

“We’re not here to train and sightsee, Sera. It’s a military operation,” Bull says, “Besides. You think Ellana is going to be leaving any of her pokemon behind? They’re just excited to take on the unknown as she is.”

“She’s going to make a preschooler cry when she pulls out her Tyranitar or Salamence,” Sera says. “Watch. Some snot-nosed little kid in training diapers is going to go up to her thinking she’s a nice elf lady with her big floppy sun hat and her floral print dress and her explosion of crazy hair and that she’ll have like…a Budew or something. Then she’s going to pull out a fucking  _Haunter_  and that thing will happen when the shadows hit just right and she looks like a demented horror movie monster with the teeth and the eyes and the pointy nails and the laughing Haunter hovering right behind her and scare the shit out of them.”

“She’ll teach kids not to judge based on appearances, and then they’ll have a story to tell all their friends.”

“And their therapist.”

“It’s her first time being able to take her Venasaur anywhere.” Bull says, “Since these islands get more sun and are generally more hospitable.”

There’s suddenly the sound of several heavy boots running at once.

Bull and Sera turn about-face and start rushing towards the sound, scrambling to get towards any porthole or deck to see what’s going on.

“The Inquisitor!” Bull’s head snaps towards the voice that’s yelling and he barrels straight through the crowd - many of whom have enough sense to see the six foot plus Qunari  _tank_  funning at full speed and throw themselves out of the way - until he finds the runner. He grabs them by the back of the neck and hauls them up to eye level. His eye level.

“What about her?” He says.

The runner’s eyes are wide and his skin is flushed - running probably - and then he grins.

Bull narrows his eye and shakes the man a little. Drugged up? Some sort of gas? A new pokemon attack? They should’ve sent more scouts ahead and maybe turned more of the locals -

“Her Ivysaur evolved!” The runner exclaims, “On the beach. Just now.”

Bull drops the runner, who immediately starts running again to continue spreading the news. Bull puts a hand over his face.

Sera smacks him on the back, wheezing a little, “Andraste, find your chill.”

“You were running just as fast as me, and you had your gun off safety,” Bull points out. “You find  _your_  chill. Well. She’s never sending any of them back now. They’re going to be on that beach having a cuddle-fest to celebrate for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Well. We can’t really do anything in the next day or two anyway,” Sera says. “Half of our crew is sea-sick.”

“I don’t know how,” Bull says, going to head back to the cargo bay with Sera as she catches her breath, “Most of them came from overseas anyway.”

“It’s called a  _plane_.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t take one. This shit isn’t new,” Bull says. “Are you leaving any of your team behind?”

“Yeah,” Sera admits, “I want to catch something new. Besides, I’ll just be leaving them with Dagna anyway. Dagna can always use some extra hands.”

Bull considers leaving his Whismur or Furfrou behind with Josephine or de Fer. It’s something he’d have to ask them about because he is kind of curious about what he could add to his current roster.

There’s a sound of a muffled explosion and roaring, Bull and Sera glance at each other.

“It’s her Gyrados,” Bull says.

“Nah, that’s got to be the Tyranitar,” Sera says. “Boo would be beached and you know how much Boo hates being beached.”

“Boo would be so happy that its friend evolved that it would take being beached,” Bull says, “And Boo’s so fucking sturdy it probably destroyed all the sharp rocks and shit as soon as it came out of its ball.”

“It’s the Tyranitar.”

“We’re going to find out when we get there, I guess,” Bull says. The roaring continues. “We are not making a good impression with the locals.”

“We’re making a show of force, kind of,” Sera says. “Or maybe they’ll think we’re really nice because our leader is being cuddled by a screaming Gyrados and Tyranitar? Whatever. Damage control isn’t my problem.”

“Not yet at least, are the Jennies active this far away from Ferelden?”

“One or two, yeah. It’ll be hard finding them but I know they’re here. I checked before we left.”


	383. Chapter 383

Ellana lowers her sunglasses, looking at the scout from her place lounging on top of her Swampert’s back. Ellana’s Tyranitar mimics the action from where its lounging leaning against the sleeping Swampert.

Bull has no idea where she got sunglasses that fit her Tyranitar’s head.

“Excuse me?” She says. “Repeat that?”

The scout looks deeply uncomfortable, “We found…a herd? A gathering? A group?”

“A lot of Exeggutor,” Bull says, “You found a lot of Exeggutor.”

“And they’re…different?” The scout frowns.

“I want you to describe them to me one more time, because I don’t think I heard you right. They were  _how_  tall?”

“About…ten meters, Inquisitor.”

“As in…the size of a  _telephone pole_ ,” Ellana says, hands folded in her lap as she continues to stare the scout down with that unnerving intensity she sometimes can get at the most unexpected times. “You’re telling me you found Exeggutor the size of  _telephone poles_. Lots of them.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” the scout answers. “And they were…thin.”

“Do you have a scan you can show her?” Bull asks, because Ellana still seems stuck on the  _ten meters tall_  part and they really aren’t going to get any farther than that. A visual might help.

The scout quickly hands over their pokedex. Bull passes it up to Ellana’s waiting hand.

Her face is unreadable as she passes the pokedex back to Bull, who gives it back to the scout.

“Give me a rough estimate of how many there were,” Ellana says. “If you had to guess a number. Ten? Fifteen?”

“Er. Twenty? Twenty five?” The scout says. “They kind of blended in with the rest of the trees and a few were moving so it was hard to guess. Uh…maybe twenty five, I think. About.”

Ellana’s fingers tap on her stomach and she turns to Bull, “Get Sera, have her talk to a few of the locals and - “

“They’re fine,” Bull says, “We have them in Par Vollen. It’s just a variant. Nothing special.”

Ellana narrows her eyes at him. “You  _knew_?”

“Yeah?”

Ellana turns from Bull to the scout and then back again.

“You knew and you didn’t  _tell me_?”

“I didn’t know they’d be  _here_ ,” Bull says, “I know  _about_  them, I just didn’t know they’d be  _here_. I didn’t realize they cropped up on the islands outside of the contested zone.”

Ellana holds up her hands to her face, fingers steepled as she breathes out.

“Did anyone try catching one?”

“We did,” the scout says, “But. Uh. An unexpected problem, well. Not problem, Inquisitor. We attempted to fight it with some ghost and fire types we had, but the damage wasn’t as good. And then it used…well. It used a dragon type move. We had to retreat.”

Ellana rounds onto Bull.

“What the fuck.”

“It’s a dragon type here,” Bull says, shrugging.

“Give me the pokedex,” Ellana says.

The scout immediately hands it to Bull and Ellana snatches it from Bull’s hand, opening it and shoving it at his eye.

“You’re telling me this tree is a  _dragon type_.”

“Yup. And technically it’s not a  _tree_. I mean. It’s never been a - “

“No. No.  _No_ ,” Ellana cuts him off. “Charizard isn’t a dragon type.  _Gyrados_  isn’t a dragon type. You’re telling me this  _tree_  is a dragon type?”

“Yes,” Bull says.

Ellana just stares at him.

She’s so quiet for so long that he’s starting to think that maybe they’ve finally found a pokemon that she  _doesn’t_  like.

“Tell me. Approximately how wide around are these dragon trees?”

“Uh.”

“Together, how much space do they cover. Show me.”

The scout and Bull exchange glances. Bull shrugs.

The scout gestures from one side of the shore inland, “Uh. About that wide? And. To base camp?”

Ellana turns around to look at said base camp, and Bull can see her mentally calculating something as she settles back down on her Swampert’s back.

Her Tyranitar looks at her expectantly, pushing its sunglasses back up its nose. Her Swampert stirs a little, rubbing at its eyes as it wakes up, snuffling before settling down to go back to sleep.

And then Ellana smiles. It’s not a  _nice_  smile. It’s not a pretty smile. It’s not a kind or gentle smile. It’s not any kind of benevolent smile.

She crooks her finger at Bull until he’s close enough for her to lean down and pluck the radio off the holster on his chest.

“This is the Inquisitor,” Ellana says, as the radio crackles to life, “You know. The person kind of spearing the charge here. I’m going to need…fifty pokeballs, a crate, and for someone to clear my schedule for the next three hours. Anyone copy?”

With her free hand she flicks her wrist and a pokeball flies up into the air, spinning before releasing its occupant.

Grievous pops out of the ball, shaking herself and quietly snuffling before looking up at Ellana. head tilted.

Cullen’s voice sounds appropriately wary when he answers, “This is Commander Rutherford. I copy. Might I inquire the reason as to this request, Inquisitor?”

Ellana’s grin is fierce, fiendish, and frightening.

“There’s a group of about twenty Exeggutor that I’m going to catch.”

The answering silence is very pointed and Bull can imagine all the people who’re receiving these messages who are  _scrambling_  right now to figure out what kind of damage Ellana is going to do and how to work around it before the shit hits the fan.

“ _Why_?” Cassandra’s voice comes over the radio next.

“I’m going to send Hawke a bouquet as a gift to let them know I’m still thinking of them and their family fondly even though we haven’t visited in  _so long_ ,” Ellana says, “To return the favor of how they redecorated Skyhold last year.”

Bull grimaces, remembering that particular incident involving the Smeargle.

“Hell yes,” Varric’s voice crackles over the speakers, “Can I get a location? I want to see this happen.”

“I’m sending some officers with the supplies needed,” Cullen says, “Do you need assistance?”

“Nah,” Ellana grins, “Grievous and I got this. And I’ve got Bull here too. You’ll help me, right Bull?”

Bull sighs. “I guess so. I mean. Wherever Grievous goes, so does Pookie.”

Ellana clicks the radio off, hopping off of her Swampert, patting its head as it continues to doze.

“You stay here, Sweet Cheeks,” She says, kissing the giant pokemon on its head. The pokemon burbles in its sleep. “Acorn, Grievous. We’ve got dragon trees to herd. You in?”

Her Tyranitar gets up, tail slowly swishing back and forth. Grievous snickers, paw held up to its strong jaw as it falls into step behind Ellana. Bull can see the faint glimmer of her Haunter hiding in Ellana’s shadow as she walks forward.

“Anything else I should know about before she captures an entire herd of Exeggutor?” Bull asks the scout.

“There were also some water pokemon in the same area, but we didn’t really notice them when faced with the…dragon trees.”

“Right.”


	384. Chapter 384

“I had forgotten,” Solas says softly, opening and closing his hands. The light shifts around them and Ellana’s eyes struggle to adjust. “Don’t try. Just  _be_.”

“You’ve forgotten so many things,” Ellana says. The air tests wet. Almost coppery, with a strange taste of  _flesh_  and  _bodies_. But there’s nothing here. Just…endless damp stone that shimmers under the light of  _something_  that she can’t find the source of. “What did you do?”

“The ritual,” Solas says, looking around, “It should have repaired the barrier between your world and this one. It must have imploded and dragged us in by mistake.”

“By  _mistake_?” Ellana surges to her feet, and then staggers. It feels like gravity re-arranges herself and her stomach lurches. Her heart trips in her chest and her head spins.

Solas’ hand is steady and firm, the first real and solid thing she’s experienced in the few minutes she’s been conscious here, as he holds onto her.

“Stop thinking. This is the  _Fade_ ,” Solas says, firm. And his voice is everything it was before. When he was Solas the elder, Solas the teacher, instead of Solas the saboteur, Solas the liar, Solas the betrayer, Solas the blind. It snags against something inside of her that hasn’t healed over, something that spikes out of her and screams its dissatisfaction. It snags and pulls and Ellana, against all better judgement,  _listens_. “It’s just like in dreams. This is the world of the mind, the spirit, not the body. The laws are not the same, the function is not the same. Now ground yourself.”

“To what?” Ellana asks.

This is not the Fade as she dreams, as she shapes her dreams. This is not the Fade she knows.

“To me,” Solas says, “For now it will have to do.”

“Ground myself to you?” Ellana repeats, dumbfounded, “After the multiple times you’ve up and  _left_  me floundering?”

Solas’ mouth pinches downwards.

“I am the only one  _here_.”

Ellana feels the snarl she learned through fury and scorn catch her upper lip and tug until her teeth are exposed to the moist air.

“I’m here.”

“It’s dangerous to ground to yourself when you don’t have any balance.”

“It’s dangerous to ground yourself to something untenable and unproven,” Ellana retorts. “And I have something else to ground to.”

Ellana presses her palm against her chest and feels her pounding heart and imagines the shape that goes with it. The curve of the worn-smooth tooth and the texture of the well worn and soft leather that should go with it. She imagines the metal casing that caps one side and she imagines running her thumb over that metal cap and feeling the Iron Bull’s initial’s.

And then it is there.

And the world rights itself - reluctantly - under the power of her will enforced upon it.

Solas nods approvingly.

“You said the ritual would close this side off,” Ellana says, “You didn’t mention there was a possibility of us being closed onto this side, too.”

“Believe it or not, Lavellan, I don’t know  _everything_.”

“Strange, considering how you act like it.”

“More than you, less than others,” Solas replies easily. “And I am just one of several. Several others with vast amounts of knowledge and specialities who’ve been trapped here as  _thoughts_  for several thousand years. Neither of us should be s surprised that they’ve managed something new that I don’t have knowledge of.”

“Was this a trap for you?”

“Perhaps,” Solas looks around. “But they didn’t get to the other side. It’s not possible, we interrupted the ritual quite cleanly. So they must still be here, somewhere. Question is, where?”

“No, the question is how do we get  _back_. Or at least, how do  _I_  get back. You can stay here,” Ellana says.

Unlike you, I have someone to go back to, she does not say.

Perhaps the years have made her more cruel and unforgiving than she thought. Perhaps, they have made her just as unforgiving as everyone wishes she would be on the subject.

Bull, Ellana thinks, I’m sorry. Solas has made a liar out of me yet again.

This was supposed to be the last time. The last jump into the abyss. And they would be gone.

It would be them in the house they built. It would be them in the house that they earned and years of relative quiet.

Not retirement, god - Ellana can’t imagine Bull retiring.

But it would have been soft. It would have been kind. Wouldn’t it have been so much gentler, living out the promised time they have before one of them - inevitably - dies before the other?

Instead Ellana is here, trapped in the Fade with perhaps the person they disagree on most.

Solas blinks, and looks at her. Really  _looks_  at her.

“Ellana, you can’t go back.”

“People have told me I can’t do a lot of things,” Ellana says. But her heart is a knot. “What do you mean I can’t go back?”

“Being sent here - like this, we were essentially banished like the others were when I did this the first time. The Fade is not a place of the physical. The worlds are separated between those properties. That’s why the ritual requires such energy, such sacrifice.”

Ellana seizes him by the front, “Tell me plainly for once in your fucking life.”

“Being here like this,” Solas says, hands on hers as he grasps her wrists, “It means our bodies are gone. We’ve transitioned over from the material to the mental. We are as dreams.”

Ellana punches him with every single ounce of strength she inherited from her grief.

And like a dream, Solas is mist, and then himself again.

“No,” Ellana says. “If  _they_  can try and get back, I can try and get back. I’ve been here before.”

“But it was different then, it wasn’t the same sort of entry or exit,” Solas says. “Ellana, you would need someone on the other side to open it for you. We still don’t know how they opened the way. We barely closed it.”

“Shut the fuck up with your pessimism and start using your misplaced idealism for a better future to get me back home,” Ellana snarls. “If they thought of a way to get across, I can definitely get across.”

“I told you, I don’t know - “

“Then I’m going to find someone who does,” Ellana snaps, turning on her heel and setting off in a random direction. This is the Fade, and if Solas is right and the Fade uses dream logic then all directions are the right one. “I have a promise to keep, and you’ve made me a fool a thousand times over but you won’t make me a fucking oath breaker.”


	385. Chapter 385

“Your person friend," Sera says, “Is a fucking classical painting in motion at  _all times_  and that’s some kind of weird.”

Bull risks a glance and sees that Ellana is sitting very primly and properly on a large moss covered rock. At this very specific angle the sun is casting off of the brim of her large sunhat to make it look like she has a halo as her long hair flows over her back and shoulders.

One hand is held slightly aloft and on it a small little Fletchling is perched. In her other hand held off to the side a Smeargle is taking her hand.

At her feet is a Brionne, a Surskit, a Roselia, several Flourgettes, a Skitty, a Rockruff, and a Slylveon.

As Bull takes this in he notices that there’s a Ralts in her lap, looking up at her like one would imagine a child looking into the face of its mother or its childhood hero.

“Yeah, she does that sometimes,” Bull says, checking around for her Haunter or something. Yeah, they all _start_  out looking all sweet and cute and shit, and then they evolve into something intimidating as fuck while retaining a name like  _Acorn_.

Bull’s gotten firsthand experience seeing this go down.

“We didn’t bring enough Pokeballs,” Bull says.

“She looks like a fresco of  _Andraste and Child_ ,” Sera says. “Or  _Le Pieta_.”

“Personally, I like it whenever she’s doing a Gentileschi.”

“Of course you do,” Sera rolls her eyes, “Of course you fucking do. Yeah, she looks raw as fuck when she pulls those looks off. It’s just usually she’s  _the Birth of Mythal_  or something pretty and stuff.”

“Remember that one time she pulled of  _Andraste and her Disciples_?” Bull points out. “That was cool.”

“How come it’s always with Pokemon?”

“She attracts them like flies.”

“She attracts people like flies, too.”

“The people aren’t as aesthetically pleasing,” Bull shrugs. “She’s getting a following, huh?”

“Yup,” Sera says, “Good to know that her power to attract Pokemon and make them fall in love with her wasn’t limited to the mainland. I guess. You think we could weaponize that somehow?”

“More than we already  _have_?”

“Point. Is that a  _Primarina_?”

“Wasn’t that the Brionne from a minute ago?”

“Andraste, it’s like she’s made of rare candy or some shit like that.”

-

“I thought you weren’t going to catch any new Pokemon here,” Ellana says, as Bull gently deposited the Mimikyuu on the bed next to her.

It looks between her and Bull before quietly shuffling over to Ellana’s hand and giving her a gentle nudge.

“Yeah, Whismurr doesn’t really like it here,” Bull says. “I sent him back to Skyhold. Leliana will take care of her for me. And then I found this guy. Thought you might like him.”

“Hello little friend,” Ellana says, soft and sweet, “My name is Ellana.”

Mimikyuu lets out a small and nervous chirp before shuffling back towards Bull and waiting expectantly.

Bull picks the Pokemon up and let sit clamber onto his shoulder where it hunkers down as he get into bed next to Ellana.

“It’s very attached to you,” She says approvingly.

“Or maybe it just thinks I’m its best shot at surviving stuff since I’m the biggest thing here,” Bull says.

“Untrue, I think Acorn has a few inches on you,” Ellana says. “And of course there’s Boo.”

“I don’t really see this guy riding a Gyrados on the regular, babe,” Bull says, “I’d ask you if you caught anything new but you’d never let me sleep listing them all off.”

Ellana grins, proud and unabashed.

“How’s the progress with the research and recovery?” He asks instead.

Ellana’s smile is not as proud nor is it as pleasant.

“Dorian’s found an entire group of Slowpoke that were…obviously too slow to escape a red lyrium growth,” Ellana says, sobering as she looks down at her hands. “I don’t know if they’ll make it. The spread of the lyrium is a lot worse than we anticipated. Or maybe it just grew exponentially past our initial estimates. We’re behind on our timetables. Cullen says that we’ve got a lot of ground to cover - combat wise - but I don’t see how we can move forward from this foothold we’ve got when we have so much to do. All of our resources need to be on recovery right now. Any less and I  _know_ that both the people and Pokemon here aren’t going to make it.”

Bull puts his hand between them, face up.

Ellana takes it, lacing their fingers together.

“And there’s the Shelder and the Magikarp,” Ellana closes her eyes. “We’ve got divers searching and doing their best but…well. There’s just so much we don’t know.”

“We’re working on it,” Bull says, “If you want I can go out myself tomorrow. Just me and a few Pokemon, I’ll take Cole and Grim. We can do some charting. I don’t think you need so many people guarding base camp right now. With the amount of Pokemon you’ve brought in I think we’re good.”

Ellana shakes her head, “Get clearance from Cullen first. It looks fine right now but I don’t want to risk losing any of you because we weren’t careful.”

Ellana looks up at him, and then leans around a little to look at his new Mimikyuu, “I’m sure this guy doesn’t want to lose you either.”

Mimikyuu chirps again, sliding off of Bull’s shoulder and curling up in his lap, happily nuzzling against his stomach before apparently going to sleep. Bull covers the small body with his other hand, feeling its small breaths.

Ellana smiles down at it.

“Hey,” Bull says.

“Yeah?”

“You save who you can,” Bull says, “No one can ask you to do more than that.”

Ellana slowly lies down, letting go of his hand and sliding one of her fingers between his to gently stroke Mimikyuu’s tail.

“Yeah,” She says. “Thanks, Bull. Go to sleep. I’ll go with you to Requisitions to see what we can get for you tomorrow morning.”


End file.
